


Werewolves of Charleston

by Heather_Night



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternative Universe - FBI, Consent Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Mystery, POV Peter Hale, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather_Night/pseuds/Heather_Night
Summary: Peter Hale’s career with the FBI takes up all of his time and energy and he likes it that way since it leaves him less time to dwell on his tragic family history.  Stiles Stilinski had a promising career with the FBI but now he’s on sabbatical, distracting himself with a relationship going nowhere.  A spark ignites between the two men despite a professional relationship.  Do they have what it takes to survive something right out of a whodunnit complete with a southern gothic setting and Mother Nature herself trying to wreak havoc on them?





	Werewolves of Charleston

**Author's Note:**

> Please run, don't walk, to see the amazing art work by Orchidsrule aka Harratus that inspired this story [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901845)
> 
> My list of thank you’s is long so I’ve put them in the end notes. 
> 
> I left the tags fairly vague because I was attempting not to spoil aspects of the story. Please see the end notes for specifics regarding the consent issues; reading is for fun so please take care of yourselves when it comes to potential triggers. I admit my tagging game is weak so if you think I need to add some more please let me know.
> 
> The plot conceived with the artist, Harratus, required double the minimum 14k of words but it was a painless, joyous endeavor. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the following story.

 

 _Those flowers I found you_  
_Were the truest red that I'd ever seen_  
_Till you cut yourself on their thorns_  
_You winced and I kissed you,_  
_And I kissed your palms and we both laughed_  
_So unaware of the gathering storm_

_It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain, till the levee breaks_  
_A tidal wave of fear and pain carries us away_  
_Another fight into the night until nothing else remains_  
_How do we find harbor from the hurricane?_

_Now sheltered in shadows,_  
_The quiet song of your breath stirs the dark_  
_Your skin like a rose 'neath my hand_  
_And I can't keep from wondering_  
_Why nothing good could ever stay_  
_Why faith feels like a fistful of sand_

_It's gonna rain, it's gonna rain, till the levee breaks_  
_A tidal wave of fear and pain carries us away_  
_Another fight into the night until nothing else remains_  
_How do we find harbor from the hurricane?_

\- _Hurricane_ by Thrice

 

Peter found himself cursing his life choices. It was true he’d wanted to come to the city, take in the sites, but he hadn’t meant for it to happen in a foot chase with a perp.

His partner, Parrish, was across the street, running parallel, waiting for an opportunity to cross over and corral Jack Jones. Peter wished he could use his werewolf speed to run down Jones but werewolves were still not public knowledge. He was _not_ going to be the werewolf who outed the supernaturals to the world at large.

Jones stumbled and Peter surged ahead. The door to one of the quaint shops opened and _shit_ —

Peter slammed into the lean male body of a civilian who had the misfortune to step into his path. His arms folded around the young man, one around surprisingly wide shoulders and the other around his trim waist. Peter tried to stop but his forward motion propelled him forward, taking the young man with him. He heard the squeak of surprise, had a flash of pretty brown eyes and pouty pink lips, and then they crashed toward the sidewalk.

He tried to turn his body to take the brunt of the fall but even his werewolf strength couldn’t keep them from tumbling around, coming to rest with Peter’s body sprawled across the civilian.

What had Peter said about his life choices? Now he had what appeared to be an unconscious man laid out beneath him and he’d lost the perp.

Peter shifted his weight until he was straddling the man’s mid-section. The man squinted up at him; his eyes were a light brown that resembled the brown tourmaline gemstone his nana wore on her index finger. He would know since she’d lovingly wagged it in his face every time he’d seen her.

Now was not the time to think of family.

“Usually I at least get an introduction before I end up flat on my back.” Oh, Peter liked his sass and low, husky voice. His slim muscled body that he’d felt beneath him moments ago had also pinged his radar. The high cheekbones and pink lips that would look lovely wrapped around his…Peter refocused while discretely adjusting himself.

Parrish was in full pursuit of the perp and Peter trusted him to take him down. That left Peter to assure the civilian was unharmed from their collision and make his acquaintance. Community policing was very important at every level, or so Peter told himself.

“I do beg your pardon. I’m happy to make your acquaintance but I would’ve preferred doing so over a nice flute of Krug. I’m Peter Hale, at your service.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand. He could get his flirt on when the occasion called for it and if he wasn’t mistaken, this was the occasion for it.

“I’m Stiles Stilinski and Black Velvet is probably the closest I’ve ever come to your drink of choice but I think it was made with Korbel instead of Krug.” The younger man put his large, slender fingered hand in Peter’s and let himself be pulled to his feet.

Peter watched carefully, his hand still lightly grasping Stiles’s cool hand in his, as the color fled from Stiles’s pink cheeks and he closed his eyes. Peter’s other hand settled at the back of his waist in case he passed out.

Stiles blinked his eyes open, face blushing with a delightful pink blush, before a crooked smile quirked his lips. “Head rush. I’m okay now.” The way the sun highlighted his tousled hair, and danced over his cheekbones, made Peter wish he had his camera. It’s too bad he couldn’t think of a reason to take out his cell phone and snap a picture.

He should’ve stepped back and given Stiles some room but he was enjoying the contact as well as the other man’s scent; it was clean with a balance of sweet and spicy. It started off with a good citrusy/minty blend, the middle note a deliciously sweet apple, and it finished off with a rich woody base. Peter’s woody base was certainly sitting up and taking notice as was his wolf. The scent was similar to Wanted by Azzaro and boy, did Peter want. “I apologize for crashing into you. I was giving chase and you just happened to step into my path.”

They heard shouts down the street and turned as Parrish cuffed the perp who was letting everyone in the vicinity know he was displeased.

The chemosignals formerly telegraphing interest turned sour. “PD?”

“FBI actually. You disapprove?” The sour scent matched the frown on Stiles’s handsome face. Some people didn’t like law enforcement or the people who served.

The sour note segued into…sadness. “Not at all. I’m sorry I got in your way.” The young man—Stiles—rubbed the back of his neck. 

“I’m not.” Peter responded, smiling widely. He’d been told his smile was rather wolfish which never failed to amuse him. 

The sun dipped behind a cloud and Stiles gave a mild shiver. Peter would’ve offered him his jacket—or his phone number—but they were interrupted.

“Stiles, what’s going on?” A new voice demanded.

The voice belonged to another young man, clad in designer jeans and a Polo shirt. His collar was popped and Peter immediately pegged him as a former frat boy. The spiked light brown hair and eyes hidden behind Tom Ford sunglasses did nothing to dispel the image.

If Peter had to name Stiles’s current scent he’d go with chagrined. The other man frowned at the interloper. “I stepped into the path of a foot pursuit. Theo, this is—"

“Come on, Babe, we need to get going or we’re going to be late for dinner with your father.” Preppy Boy, aka Theo, was rude. He was also possessive as he slid his arm around Stiles’s waist, anchoring him to his side. 

“It was nice meeting you,” Stiles called out as this Theo person tugged him down the sidewalk.

Peter watched the fine ass twitching in worn Levi’s as the couple disappeared down the sidewalk. He could hear Stiles scolding Theo for being rude and Theo was apologizing but Peter could tell he didn’t mean it. 

His shitty luck continued to hold. Peter had finally found someone he wanted to get know better and it turned out he was already tied to an asshole. Oh well, it’s not like he had time to start a relationship, not with his busy career.

-0-

Stiles woke up slowly, listening to Theo’s voice droning from the next room. 

He felt like he had a hangover but he definitely hadn’t done anything to warrant that feeling.

The day had started nicely enough with Stiles literally running into hot FBI Agent, Peter Hale. He’d enjoyed their mild flirtation on the sidewalk, at least until Theo had ruined it. Things had taken a turn for the worse when Theo had something work related come up and Stiles had to cancel their dinner plans with Stiles’s father. Again. Stiles could’ve gone alone but he didn’t want to suffer through his dad’s judgmental comments about Theo, especially when it was looking like those comments would be warranted.

Theo and Stiles had fought. The make-up sex had been scorching but then Theo had done something…

“That asshole bit me!” Stiles didn’t really remember it happening, he just remembered not agreeing to it, and that Theo had gone ahead and done it anyway.

He rolled to a sitting position, throwing off the sheet. There, on the inside of his left thigh, were the puncture wounds of a bite. He leaned over to study the marks more thoroughly and the back of his neck throbbed with pain.

Stiles was extremely flexible due to his ongoing love affair with Yoga so he should’ve been able to bend over without any discomfort. This wasn’t a muscle kind of pain; no, it felt more like a scab pulling. His fingers sought the spot at the base of his neck, kneading gently. He felt for moisture but when he pulled his fingers in front of his face so he could study them, they were clean.

Making his way to the bathroom, Stiles started the shower. He turned the temperature up as hot as he could stand it. The heat went a long way toward relieving the tension in his limbs but his head still felt foggy. Maybe he’d knocked his head harder than he thought when he’d tangled with Peter. Not that he’d minded tangling with him.

He ran the soapy washcloth over his groin repeatedly, wanting to clean out Theo’s love bite. What the hell had gotten into him? Human bites were known to cause some of the most dangerous infections. 

Although to be honest, Theo wasn’t going to be around for much longer. Stiles had needed a distraction after washing out of Quantico and Theo had filled the role nicely. Theo was a hot, entitled asshole but he’d known how to play Stiles’s body like an instrument. 

Stiles was bored with Theo, the relationship having run its course. He needed to get over his disappointment at not cutting it with the FBI and move on with his life, preferably without Theo. 

Turning off the water, Stiles grabbed the towel and briskly rubbed his skin dry. Now that he’d made the decision to break up with Theo, Stiles wanted to pack a bag, let Theo know they were over, and get out tonight.

Stiles pulled on clean clothing and pulled a carryall out of the closet. He made quick work out of rolling his clothing and storing it in the carryall. He cleared the bathroom of his hygiene products and dumped them into the carryall’s front pocket. He scooped his cell phone up from the nightstand and tucked it into his jeans while he rolled the charger cord up and nestled it between his socks. Everything else of value was at his dad’s.

He admittedly didn’t have much to pack so he’d at least subconsciously known this wasn’t a lasting relationship. He’d needed something fun. Now the fun was over.

Stiles approached the door but instead of opening it, he pressed his ear to it, listening to see if Theo had wrapped up his conversation. He thought he heard Theo address Josh; that was his part time assistant’s name. Maybe there had been a work issue after all.

“What do you mean the shipment is lost? Those SLR’s are spoken for already and the buyer will be picking them up tomorrow at 9 a.m.” Theo growled and for once the sound wasn’t sexy.

SLR’s were Self Loading Rifles. Stiles was the son of a county sheriff and he’d just flunked out of the FBI’s training academy; he knew weapons. Theo was in the import business but he specialized in Dutch specialties like gourmet foods (which he loved because it was very tasty) and glassware featuring tulips (which scared him because he always worried he’d knock them over). Stiles would know because he helped Theo do inventory this last weekend.

Theo stopped talking and Stiles was certain he was staring toward the bedroom door. Maybe it was just paranoia or maybe it was actually his hindbrain signaling danger but Stiles drifted back into the bedroom. He moved into the bathroom, closing the door softly, and looked around. His bladder signaled it might appreciate relief so Stiles went ahead, thinking the normalness of peeing, flushing and washing his hands might disguise that he’d overheard Theo’s conversation.

He opened the bathroom door to find Theo leaning against the bedrooms door jamb, arms crossed casually, staring at him. Theo nodded toward the bag on the bed. “Going somewhere, Babe?”

“Yeah, I’m heading to my dad’s.” His dad didn’t know that but once the sheriff heard that Stiles suspected Theo was arms trafficking, he would forgive Stiles for getting kicked out of the FBI. 

Theo raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Was it something I said?”

Oh shit, Theo suspected he’d overheard him. Well Stiles could throw him off the trail. “No, actually, it was something you did. You bit me, you asshole! What the fuck?”

“Oh, that? I was just making sure you’d come when I called.” Theo didn’t seem at all upset with Stiles, just continued to smile at him, even though his response was odd. And unsettling. 

Stiles tipped his head back and pondered the best course of action. Fuck it, he wasn’t going to reason with Theo when he was in this mood and since he wasn’t interested in continuing a relationship with the man, it didn’t matter what Theo thought of him. “I don’t know what that means and I don’t really care. You crossed a line, Theo. We’re done.” He snatched the carryall up from the bed and marched toward the door.

At first he thought Theo was going to block his exit but the other man stood up, stepped away, and made the _after you_ gesture with his hand. “Oh, we’re not done by a longshot but you can go. For now.”

For a moment Stiles thought Theo’s eyes changed colors d but then he reasoned it was just a trick of the setting sun’s light. 

He made himself maintain his brisk walk although he wanted to sprint for the door. He wanted to look over his shoulder to make sure Theo wasn’t following him but he didn’t want to show fear.

It wasn’t until Stiles slid into his Jeep that he took a moment to collect himself. He was breathing fast, his heartbeat hammering in his ears…he was on the verge of a panic attack. He hadn’t felt this shitty since Harris had thrown him out of Quantico. 

Stiles had never felt threatened by Theo before but damned if his fight-or-flight response hadn’t overwhelmingly kicked in, flight being the winner. He’d learned to listen to his instincts and they said—screamed—Theo was a big-time threat.

He pulled his phone out and found the contact he wanted. “Hey, it’s Stiles. I need to run something by you when you have a moment so please call me back.”

Turning the key in the ignition, Stiles waited for the engine to catch and turn over. He exited the parking area and headed toward the interstate.

He needed to get somewhere safe and then he needed to talk to his onetime mentor, Rafa McCall, to report what he’d heard. His dad wouldn’t mind if he crashed with him—he should definitely be safe staying with a county sheriff—and Rafa would call him back eventually.

Stiles couldn’t say he was looking forward to any of what was to come but that pretty much summed up his life lately.

-0-

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose while his superior (in name only, thank you very much) prattled on. Rafael McCall was a solid agent but he loved the sound of his own voice. Right now something, or someone, had him riled up.

He tuned back in to hear words like _little shit_ and _over his head_ but he really perked up when he heard a word. 

It was a name.

Stiles.

“Back up. Could you repeat that, please?” Peter interrupted McCall when the other man paused to take a breath.

McCall scowled but complied. Grudgingly. “We received a tip on a possible arms dealer. People from his inner circle are either disappearing or dying under mysterious circumstance.”

That didn’t explain why McCall had said the name Stiles. “What’s the name of this supposed arms dealer?” Peter held his breath. He was an excellent judge of character, and his wolf was even better, and there was no way the charming young man he’d met on the west coast was trafficking in arms.

“Theo Raeken is his name. Someone I know turned in the tip and I’m worried for his safety.” McCall report this last bit gruffly. McCall at least cared for the tipster enough to be worried.

Parrish, who up until now had listened quietly, joined the conversation. “So, you think the intel you received from this Stiles person is actionable?”

That explained how Stiles fit into this scenario. Peter still couldn’t parse the man he’d met with someone who would be with a gunrunner but at least Stiles had turned the asshole in.

“I do. I’ve got a task force working on finding proof on Raeken.” McCall answered Parrish’s question.

Parrish, always ready for a new assignment, asked the important question: “What is our assignment then?”

Peter knew what the answer was going to be before McCall answered but he braced himself for the words. “One of your assignments is protection detail for Stiles.”

Protection detail? He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or dismayed by the news. Although that was only one of their assignments so what was the rest of it? He guessed he would find out more shortly.

“I put him in an interview room. I figured you’d want to meet him before you put together a plan. I’ve got some suggestions but I want to hear your thoughts first.” McCall stood up and Parrish matched his actions.

Pete was already on his feet, moving toward the door. He hadn’t realized shortly meant now. 

The brisk walk through the building’s maze of corridors seemed never ending but the J. Edgar Hoover Building had 2,800,876 square feet of internal space so that was no surprise. The building as a whole was reminiscent of a prison with the buff-colored precast exterior and cast-in-place concrete with repetitive, square, bronze-tinted windows set deep in concrete frames. Peter had only been within the walls for thirty minutes and he was already looking forward to exiting the edifice.

They took the secure elevator to a below-ground floor and walked down yet another secure corridor. McCall finally waved his badge to open an interview room and as soon as the door opened, Peter inhaled the citrusy/minty blend overlaid with apple and that rich earthy base. He hated being cooped up in the fortress and the scent reminded him there were other, more pleasant things awaiting him.

Too bad Stiles wouldn’t be one of them. Peter didn’t mix business and pleasure. 

Stiles had his head resting on folded arms atop the faux wood table and the man didn’t stir as they entered the room. No wonder the man was in need of a protection detail; he seemed to lack the basics in situational awareness.

“Stiles.” McCall’s voice was softer, and gentler, than Peter had ever heard out of the man.

The man’s head lifted, messy dark locks falling into his face, eyes blinking slowly.

Peter heard the fast thrum of Stiles’s heartbeat as he stirred to wakefulness. He began to lunge to his feet but McCall’s firm grip on his shoulder held him down. “It’s okay, Stiles. These are the agents I told you about, Jordan Parrish and—”

“Peter Hale. We’ve met.” Stiles rose to his feet and flashed a weak smile his way and then held out his hand to Parrish. “Pleased to meet you.”

McCall stared at the side of Peter’s face but he didn’t acknowledge the look. “So, you and Preppy Boy parted ways?”

Stiles crinkled his nose. It should’ve looked juvenile. With his slightly upturned nose it looked adorable. “Theo was always an ass but I didn’t know he was an arms dealing ass until later that same day we bumped into each other.”

“Someone better start talking. Explain to me how you two know one another.” McCall had his arms crossed over his impressive chest, glowering. 

“This is the civilian Peter wrestled to the ground in our pursuit of Jones.” It amused Peter that he referred to his partner by his last name and his partner insisted on using his first name. He was even more amused by the incredulous look on McCall’s face.

Stiles waved his hand, minimizing what Parrish had said. Peter assumed Stiles took issue with the wrestled to the ground description of their meeting.

Peter was quickly disabused of this notion as McCall snorted. “I wouldn’t exactly call Stiles a civilian.”

The zesty scent soured again. Stiles flashed McCall a look and his boss flattened his lips into a tight line in response. There was a story there but Peter held his tongue; he knew he’d get to the bottom of it eventually.

Parrish broke the uncomfortable silence. “Why don’t you fill us in on what happened?”

Stiles grimaced before rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Do you mind if we sit down?”

McCall sat to the side while Peter and Parrish faced Stiles. The chairs in this interview were relatively comfortable. Apparently, Stiles rated one of their better interview rooms.

“I overheard Theo on the phone with his part time assistant, Josh Diaz. Theo mentioned a shipment being lost and told Josh the SLR’s were spoken for already and the buyer would be picking them up the next morning. I got the hell out of there and contacted Agent McCall.” Stiles tipped his head toward McCall in acknowledgment and both men smiled tightly.

Peter joined the interview. “How do you think Raeken would move the weapons? He struck me as being a trust fund kid.”

“Theo owns an import business specializing in Dutch products. I’ve helped him do inventory before and Self-Loading Rifles weren’t included.” Peter raised an eyebrow; Stiles certainly knew the jargon.

“Stiles has attended training at Quantico. He’s taking a break but will resume classes as soon as we have Raeken put away.” McCall answered the unspoken question for Peter. It also helped explain how the two men might know each other.

Stiles, eyes downcast, didn’t comment.

“You mentioned Stiles needing protection. Who has Raeken already gone after?” Parrish aimed his question at McCall.

Their witness answered before McCall had a chance. “Josh Diaz. He was Theo’s part time assistant with his business and it was Josh on the other end of the conversation I overhead.”

“How did Mr. Diaz die?” Peter wanted to ascertain the level of threat.

Stiles flinched and McCall stepped in to answer. “Mr. Diaz had his throat torn out.”

Parrish asked for clarification. “You mean he was garroted? That takes a really strong person. Or a professional.”

“No, the actual cause of death established by the coroner was multiple injuries by animal attack.” McCall answered and then tacked on, “His throat was literally torn out.”

A shifter could easily do that but Theo Raeken hadn’t smelled like a shifter. Maybe he had one on his payroll.

“You said other people close to Raeken had gone missing. Who else?” Peter needed concrete data to work with here.

McCall frowned. “Tracy Stewart. She was last seen in Charleston, South Carolina. She was a contact for the import business and we think she was there to receive a shipment.”

“You already said Parrish and I are tasked with keeping Stiles in protective custody until Raeken is arrested. What is the rest of the assignment?” Peter’s wolf was restless in the back of his mind, pacing, determined to keep the human safe. His wolf’s response wasn’t any different than Peter’s. 

McCall parted his lips to answer but Stiles beat him to the punch. “Actually, you’re tasked with keeping me safe while we lure Theo out.”

Peter rose to his feet. “We are not using you for bait.”

Stiles leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples with long, delicately formed fingers. “It’s our best shot at catching him.” His full lips were pulled down, his face drawn.

Peter didn’t like this idea at all. It was giving him a headache as well although his was metaphorical; the werewolf gene kept him from feeling something as mundane as an ache for long.

“Stiles has the basic training to pull this off and with you two, plus Finstock and Greenberg as back up, this is our best play.” McCall didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the idea but his face was set in granite, a sure indication his mind was made up. His next words sealed the deal. “Your plane leaves in three hours. In five hours you’ll be in Chucktown, gentleman.”

-0-

Stiles stretched, his spine shifting and realigning. The clock on the bedside table said it was 11:30 but he didn’t know if that was morning or night. He supposed he had to get out of bed regardless of the time as his stomach rumbled ominously.

He’d spent just shy of five hours in the air getting to DC and then another two hours on the flight to Charleston. Factor in the driving to and from airports and Stiles had done nothing but travel. The stress of the situation had also contributed to his overall feeling of malaise and he’d gratefully tumbled into the bed at the quaint bed and breakfast where they were staying.

He’d been so exhausted by the time they’d arrived he couldn’t tell you anything about the accommodations other than the bed was reasonably comfortable. 

The connecting door opened without warning and Peter Hale walked into the room. “Good, you’re awake. We missed breakfast. We’re lunching out in thirty minutes so make yourself presentable.”

The words were cordial enough but Stiles took issue with the agent waltzing into his space, lip curling as he took in Stiles’s disheveled state. 

His ire deflated; it didn’t seem worth quibbling over seeing as the agents were here to assure his safety, not be friendly.

He made eye contact and noticed Peter’s very pretty blue eyes twinkling at him. Stiles wasn’t sure if Peter was blowing hot and cold or if Stiles himself was discombobulated and misreading the situation. This whole thing with Theo had really brought home that he couldn’t trust his instincts, that he wasn’t suited for law enforcement and that maybe Harris had been right to throw him out.

Stiles nodded his understanding and stood up, smiling weakly in response. Something brushed the top of his head and Stiles might’ve yelped, batting whatever it was away from him. Cobweb? Spider? No, his fingers were entangled in some sort of material.

Peter burst into laughter which, while irritating, told Stiles he wasn’t in any sort of danger.

“Are you done fighting with the lace?” The deep voice rumbled with humor.

Looking upward, Stiles realized he was enmeshed in the lace canopy. Ugh. The bed might’ve been comfortable but the room looked like some sort of dollhouse to his eyes. The dark colored wood of the armoire, mirror and bed was attractive but the white lace hanging from the bed, the curtains and French door separating his room from the agents’ boggled his mind.

The agent came forward and helped untangle him. “Are you sure you received training at Quantico?” 

The words were probably meant in jest but they drained away whatever humor he’d found in the situation. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Do you want me to knock on your door when I’m ready?”

“Yes, please. That reminds me, we didn’t get a chance to lay out the ground rules before you turned into Sleeping Beauty. You are not to go anywhere without an escort.” Peter crossed his arms over his chest and Stiles enjoyed the way his biceps bulged.

“That’s it?” Stiles had assumed there would be a whole list of things he could or couldn’t do.

“Do you want more? You don’t particularly strike me as the type to follow the rules for some reason.” For a moment Stiles wondered if Peter was referencing his fall from grace but his smile was positively wicked.

Stiles appreciated the effort but he was still off balance from all of the traveling and his answer was a bit more bitter than he’d intended. “I guess remembering not going anywhere without you or Jordan is just about all my little brain can handle.” When Peter frowned at him, Stiles made the shooing motion. “Let me hit the shower and I’ll be ready to go.”

Peter’s broad shoulders, trim waist and muscular ass and thighs held Stiles’s attention as the other man left his room. He snapped to attention when his stomach grumbled, again, while searching the space for his carryon. It was tucked away in the armoire and Stiles pawed through it, finding a pair of khaki’s, t-shirt, boxer-briefs and socks. His shaving kit held the rest of his shower supplies and he entered the bathroom which was decked out in more lace.

The water pressure was above average and it felt wonderful as the heated water pounded into his muscles but he didn’t want to keep the agents waiting so he sped through his shower routine. When he stepped out the mirror was covered with condensation, a testament to his hot shower. 

After toweling off quickly, he smudged the fabric across the mirror to dry off enough space to see while shaving. 

_Stiles._

His head whipped around, seeking the voice, but he was the sole occupant of the small, lacey bathroom.

Maybe he still needed more sleep. Uneasy over his mind playing tricks on him, Stiles kept part of his attention over his shoulder, on the look-out for danger, and the other on getting ready. He needed to get his act together since the whole point of this outing was catching Theo’s attention.

Stiles’s hair was due for a cut, the waves unruly and flopping in his face, but he was clean shaven. A swipe of deodorant and brisk tooth brush replete with minty fresh toothpaste and Stiles was ready to climb into his clothing and head out.

The Vans were a bit disreputable but they were comfortable and he had a hunch they’d be walking a fair bit so Stiles jammed his feet into those, snagged his wallet and cell phone, and knocked on the door.

Jordan Parrish swung the French door open. “Come on through. I made a reservation and it’ll take about ten minutes to get there by foot.”

Peter finished up a phone call and then joined them. “We’re just three friends hanging out in the historic city of Charleston. Lunch and site seeing?”

Stiles smiled and for the first time since he overheard Theo’s conversation it felt natural. “I’ve always wanted to visit Fort Sumter.” 

Peter returned his smile. “The federal stronghold where the first shots of the Civil War were fired? It sounds like you’re a bit of a history buff.” 

“So do you. What do you say? Can we work that into our schedule?” Stiles looked at both men. 

Jordan shrugged. “I’ll check on tours and see what security is like while we’re eating.”

They strolled through the French Quarter and even as uneducated in architecture as Stiles was, he found the homes stately. “Do you know what style of architecture that is?” Stiles pointed to a three-story brick faced house with six white columns in front of each floor.

Peter answered him and somehow Stiles knew he would; the man seemed to have eclectic tastes and he was well versed on many subjects. “That’s Georgian. I believe there is a cluster of 13 Georgian-style rowhouses in the Historic District and they’re all painted in pastels if you’re interested.”

“Maybe tomorrow? I can’t say as I’m a huge fan of pastels—what’s with that peach stuff on the walls on the staircase where we’re staying?—but I do like looking at the different homes.” Stiles was much more interested in Fort Sumter and if they got to tour that, he’d be happy to do whatever Peter or Jordan wanted.

The wind whipped up and Stiles rubbed his arms; maybe he should’ve at least grabbed a long-sleeved shirt before they headed out. He didn’t have a jacket with him, actually he didn’t have a lot of things with him, but he’d packed in a hurry to meet with Rafa. 

Their journey ended at a restaurant called Magnolia’s. The reservation, under Stilinski, meant they were seated promptly in front of a window looking onto the street.

Stiles had visited other parts of the country before but this was his farthest trip south and he realized he wasn’t in Kansas anymore, Toto, when he ordered tea expecting hot water and a tea bag and instead was served cold tea.

He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it but he was curious so he asked the waitress what she had served him.

She was statuesque with long blond hair coiled around her head, bright red lipstick and a bright smile. “Well, sugar, that’s sweet tea. Isn’t that what you ordered?”

Her smile was still professional but it had hardened a bit. She probably thought he was going to be one of _those_ customers who were a pain in the ass. Stiles had never worked in food service but he’d heard plenty of stories from friends who had and he didn’t want to anger the wait staff. He picked up the glass and took a sip. “For some reason I thought it would be hot tea but this is delicious. Exactly what I needed. Thank you.”

The waitress’s smile softened and the skin around her eyes crinkled. “You’re just as cute as a button, aren’t you?” The next was aimed at the whole table. “I’ll give you gentleman a few more minutes and then stop for your order.”

She swayed off, hips swaying.

“Nice save.” Jordan said before he took a sip of his lemonade. 

Peter took a swallow of his San Pellegrino sparkling water. “She’s definitely developed a fondness for you.”

Stiles’s cheeks heated up. He turned his attention to the menu. As soon as he saw they had a burger, he closed it.

The waitress, Sheila, returned to their table. “And what can I get you handsome gentleman?” She turned her attention to Peter first. He ordered the Magnolia burger, rare, with potato chips.

That was definitely a strike against the man. Who ordered potato chips at a restaurant?

Jordan followed suit. Weird.

“And what about you, sugar?” Shelia queried.

“Let’s stick with the theme we have going here. Can I also have the cheeseburger, please? And a double order of curly fries?”

Silence met his request and Sheila frowned. “Well, bless your heart, sugar, we don’t have, what did you call them? Curly fries on our menu. Would you like to try sweet potato fries instead?”

Stiles couldn’t help the small moue of unhappiness he made; he was craving comfort food and the lack of curly fries was a huge disappointment to him. 

The waitress gamely offered other suggestions. “We also have housemade potato chips, potato salad, or collard greens.”

The cheeseburger was suddenly unappealing. “You know what? I think I’d rather try something with local flavor. What would you recommend?”

Sheila’s face lit up with pleasure. “Good on you. I’d recommend the Shellfish Over Grits.”

Stiles didn’t remember what that was but Sheila was so enthusiastic in her suggestion that he decided to go with it. “That sounds great. I’ll have that. Thank you.”

Sheila departed and Stiles found himself the subject of Peter’s stare.

Jordan excused himself to make some calls and Peter continued to stare.

“What?” Stiles fidgeted in his chair.

Peter smiled and it transformed his face from devilishly handsome to approachable. “I think you’ve made a conquest in Sheila.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I really, really wanted curly fries. I have no idea what I ordered.”

“I hope you don’t have any allergies to seafood.” Peter murmured as Sheila passed by the table, pitcher in hand, topping off his glass of sweet tea.

“I hope so, too.” Stiles responded after he thanked Sheila and she moved off.

Jordan returned to the table. “I booked a tour of Fort Sumter for after lunch. I think because we’re new in the city we should be safe. Tomorrow we’ll have to up our game but the others will be here to help out.”

For a few short minutes—his head filled with thoughts of sweet tea and something over grits—Stiles had forgotten the purpose of their visit to Charleston.

Peter and Jordan chatted while Stiles stared out the window at the foot traffic passing on the sidewalk. Despite the tinting on the windows, the sunshine seemed to zero in on his face giving him a headache. He squinted and rubbed his forehead.

“Headache?” Peter’s voice was low and concerned but Stiles dropped his hands, embarrassed at being caught out. He didn’t know why he was embarrassed but he wanted to demonstrate he was closer to being an equal to these men instead of someone who needed protecting.

Sheila approached the table with a tray filled with food, catching part of the conversation. “Uh oh, do you have a headache, sugar? I’ve got some pain reliever I can getcha.”

“No thank you, Sheila. I think I’m just hungry and once I eat, I’ll be back to normal.” Stiles once again blushed, uneasy at being the focus of the table’s attention.

“Well here ya go.” She set a plate of what looked like sautéed shrimp, white pieces of meat that might’ve been scallops, something green that resembled spinach, and it was all spread over a pale substance resembling Cream of Wheat. He used to like Cream of Wheat as a kid so that at least was something.

They thanked Sheila who promised to return with more drinks.

Stiles made sure his napkin was spread over his lap, picked up his fork, and scooped up some food. “Mmmm.” Sheila knew her stuff.

Even lunch was proving an adventure in Charleston so Stiles could hardly wait to see what the rest of his stay would be like.

-0-

Peter kept an eye on their surroundings but his attention kept drifting back to their witness.

The younger man was gamely playing along, currently chatting with Jordan about baseball as they moved down the sidewalk, but Peter could tell Stiles’s heart wasn’t in it. Or at least his mind was elsewhere.

Every once in a while Stiles would glance over his shoulder surreptitiously and between that and the tight set of his shoulders, Peter knew he was anxious.

Jordan and Peter kept Stiles between them and when there was a lull in the conversation, Peter elbowed Stiles lightly and spoke softly. “Hey, relax, we’ll keep you safe.”

Stiles’s head turned the side and he stared at Peter, wide-eyed. “Oh, sorry. I guess I feel exposed out here.”

“That, unfortunately, is the idea.” Peter’s hand shot out and cupped Stiles’s elbow when the other man tripped over a rough patch of sidewalk.

A slight quiver ran through Stiles’s body. Perhaps Stiles was as affected by Peter’s touch as Peter was by Stiles’s. When another shiver shook Stiles’s frame, Peter realized there was something else going on, mainly that the other man was chilled. “Jordan, are there any gift shops around here?”

“I think there’s one at Fort Sumter.” Parrish promptly supplied.

A horse drawn carriage clumped by them on the cobblestone street. Peter, not sensing danger, jogged after the carriage, hailing the driver. It took quite a bit of cash but he’d come prepared and soon the proprietor of the carriage agreed to put the top up, much like the top on the convertible, to give them some protection from the breeze.

He beckoned Parrish and Stiles over. “Your chariot awaits.”

Stiles, wide smile gracing his face, slid into the carriage, facing forward. Parrish got in next, facing Stiles; Peter knew this was so his partner could cover their tails. Peter happily joined Stiles, sitting close so they were thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder.

“Thank you.” Stiles smiled at Peter. Even without the smile, Peter would’ve known Stiles was pleased; his scent was clean and balanced, just like when Peter had first made his acquaintance. “I’ve always wanted to ride in a horse drawn carriage.”

Once again Peter had a pang that he couldn’t ask Stiles on a date but right now he was on the job and Stiles _was_ the job.

They clip-clopped past pastel antebellum houses, some with elegant fountains and others with ornate gates and all of them striking. It didn’t take long before they pulled up in front of Liberty Square. Peter remembered hanging out in the national park area when he’d been a teen visiting his Nana. 

Back when he had more than two other living family members.

Now was not the time to lose focus. Peter hopped out of the carriage first, scanning the area for danger. He put his hand out to help Stiles down and the man allowed it, leaving his hand in Peter’s hand longer than was necessary.

It was nice to have confirmation that the flirtation wasn’t just on his side although Stiles wasn’t being overt and Peter doubted the other man would make any sort of move.

Peter slid more money into the driver’s hand, the tip well worth it along with the other money spent for the ride, as they now had time to attend to something else before the ferry left for the island and their destination: Buying Stiles something with sleeves to keep him warm. Their expense account could certainly absorb the purchase.

He wished he’d worn his leather jacket because Peter’s wolf would’ve found wrapping the material around Stiles satisfying. Instead he’d have to make do with purchasing something. “Let’s stop in the Visitor Education Center,” he suggested. He had a vague memory of all sorts of wares being on display there. The more time Peter spent here, the more he remembered about the area.

Parrish lagged behind, allowing Peter to guide Stiles toward the brown brick building. They mounted the steps, dodging the many tourists milling around, but Peter quickly located the shop with the standard gifts on display. A rack of hoodies seemed to be the best options and he quickly pulled out a blue one complete with palmetto moon.

Stiles stood next to him, bemused. “What are you doing?”

“Tourists buy things and you’re going to be cold out on the water. I’m getting this for you.” Peter announced, eyebrow cocked in challenge.

“What is that logo?” Stiles gestured to the crescent moon over the palmetto tree.

Peter knew the answer from his Nana. “The crescent moon pattern originated during protests of the Stamp Act. I’m sure you remember that from your history. It was adopted by the Carolina State Troops in the Revolutionary War. The palmetto trees came to prominence during that war when they were laid over sand walls to protect South Carolina troops from the cannons being shot by the British war ships. When South Carolina seceded from the Union, they created a state flag using both of these symbols.” He’d taken this all in as a child, primarily because of the moon connection. What young werewolf wouldn’t be fond of a flag using a moon although he would’ve preferred it was a full moon for obvious reasons.

Stiles actually flashed a dimple. “You really do know your history. You’re not just a pretty face.” Pink flushed over Stiles’s face but he didn’t break eye contact. Here was a flash of the man Peter had met on the left coast, with his twinkling eyes and bright smile. The one Peter had thought he’d like to get to know better.

“Hey, the ferry is going to depart in ten minutes. We should get going.” Parrish nearly succeeded in sneaking up on Peter and he gave himself a mental talking to; he needed to focus on the job here.

Peter took the blue sweatshirt up to the register. Once the purchase was complete, he handed it to Stiles. “Let’s get a move on. Fort Sumter awaits.”

His wolf pranced in place as Stiles pulled the hoodie over his head, and tugged the material down, settling into its warmth.

As predicted there was a cool breeze off the water sweeping over the ferry although the sun dancing across the surfaces kept Peter comfortable. Stiles slid his hands into the front pocket of the hoodie, smiling at Peter in what appeared to be silent thanks.

They’d elected to stay on the upper most deck, exposed to the elements. Parrish moved around the surface, smiling and making small talk in that golly-gee way he had, searching for threats. Peter stayed near Stiles, his senses sharpening with all of the bodies compacted into a small area.

The two and a quarter hour tour had barely gotten under way when Peter noticed his companion leaning his elbows on the railing, squinting across the bright water. “Is your headache back?”

Stiles swallowed convulsively, nodding his head yes slowly, his eyes closed tightly. Peter didn’t think Stiles suffered from motion sickness as he’d shown no signs of it during their flight here, but he was definitely in distress. 

Cupping Stiles’s elbow he steered him toward the prow of the deck where seats were arranged in rows. The last row was fairly empty so Peter deposited Stiles on the end of a row on a green wooden chair. 

Keeping his senses open to danger, Peter kneeled on one knee next to Stiles who had turned a grayish white. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Clenching his jaw, Stiles shook his head no, eyes still tightly closed. Peter could see a fine sheen of perspiration coating Stiles’s upper lip and his scent had soured.

“Excuse me, I have some Dramamine and water if you think that will help,” a woman offered, her skin lined with age and sun exposure, her gray hair caught in a tight ponytail. Peter had a fair ear for accents and would guess she was from the area. She grimaced lightly, “My grandson doesn’t fare too well on the water either.”

Peter didn’t trust that just because the woman was older, she wasn’t a threat, but instead he listened to her heartbeat which said she was telling the truth. He looked up at her, smiling gratefully. “I think that would be worth a shot, thank you for your generous offer.”

The woman pulled a short, squat bottled water from her bag and handed it over. “Here you go, sweetie.” She dug around some more and produced a packet proclaiming its contents as Dramamine. 

“Grandma!” a young male voice impatiently called.

The woman squeezed Peter’s shoulder softly. “I hope that helps. If not, I’ll be over yonder and ya’ll just find me.” She disappeared before Peter could properly thank her. 

Peter cracked into the water, handing it over to Stiles who shaded his face with his other shaking hand. He made quick work of the packet, spilling the pills into his palm. “Here, let’s see if this helps.”

Stiles allowed Peter to feed him the pills before he sipped at the water. Peter didn’t like the way Stiles passively allowed him to tend to him, Stiles’s behavior telling him how poorly the other man felt. 

He could remember his twin cousins, Oisin and Aoife, suffering from the typical maladies humans were prone to, thankful that he didn’t have to deal with the same afflictions…right up until he could hear his cousins coughing and wheezing their last breaths, unconscious when the fire ate away at their skin. In those moments Peter had wished he could escape the benefits of his superior werewolf healing factor.

Stiles lowered the bottle from his lips, the motion interrupting Peter’s morbid thoughts. 

Footsteps approached and Peter recognized Parrish’s steady even gait. “Wow, you look horrible.”

Stile’s bloodshot eyes peaked from beneath partially cracked lids. He made a motion with the hand resting on his thigh, the universal gesture for _fuck off_ and Peter’s lips twitched; Stiles might feel poorly but he was still in there.

Parrish continued his rounds and Peter remained next to Stiles, guarding his charge. When Stiles’s head began to bob on his long neck, exhaustion or Dramamine causing the drowsiness, Peter sighed with relief. He touched the back on Stiles’s neck, squeezing lightly as though giving comfort, but he used the werewolf pain-drain to draw off some of the discomfort.

By the time the ferry docked at Fort Sumter, Stiles was sleeping soundly. Parrish cleared his throat softly. “What do you want to do?”

“I guess we’ll wait out the tour and then get Stiles back to his room to rest.” Peter stared fondly at Stiles’s head as the breeze rearranged the wavy hair unbeknownst to the slumbering man. “I think I’ll stay right here and catch up on my reading.”

Peter gently nudged the pliant man into the next seat, sliding him carefully, so that he could take the outside chair. He looked up to find Parrish staring at him, head cocked to the side, a half smile on his face. “What?”

Parrish smoothed the smile from his face and shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll patrol.”

He held his encrypted iPhone in one hand while wrapping his arm around Stiles’s surprisingly broad shoulders. Stiles leaned into Peter’s side in his sleep, nuzzling his cheek against the side of Peter’s neck before settling, top of his head tucked on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter placed his thumb on the home button and then entered his passcode; fortunately, his hand was large enough that he could both hold and navigate the files he needed with one hand since his other hand was curled around Stiles’s far shoulder, helping stabilize him as the boat gently pitched on the water.

He settled into his reading, curious to see what information was available on this case. Stiles’s life was in his hands and Peter was going to give this case everything he had to protect him.

-0-

Stiles woke up refreshed, his headache finally gone. He was disappointed to have missed out on the actual tour of Fort Sumter but he’d felt so shitty he was happy not to remember much about the ride back. At least he’d made it back to the bed and breakfast under his own steam although he remembered someone’s gentle hands helping pull his clothing off and tucking him into bed.

Someone knocked on the French door connecting the rooms and Stiles sat up and called, “Come in,” although it was more a croak than a call.

Peter’s handsome face poked around the edge of the door, his expression softening. “How are you today?” The agent had projected a no-nonsense attitude at their second meeting at the J. Edgar Hoover Building but since then Stiles had glimpsed a warm, compassionate manner beneath the professional demeanor.

One of Peter’s eyebrows quirked upward and Stiles realized he was so busy staring he hadn’t answered the question. He cleared his throat and was pleased his voice came out stronger although it was still too husky. “I slept hard but I guess I needed it. I’m sorry I ruined yesterday.”

Stiles’s realized how naive he sounded—they weren’t there to sight-see, they were there to lure Theo out—so he tried to rectify matters and save face. “I mean I know we were supposed to be out in public to catch Theo’s attention and I made that difficult.” His face heated up and pushed at his tangled bangs nervously, needing something to do with his hands.

Peter smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I think we were seen out in public enough for our first full day here. Today I thought we’d do lunch and another tour, this time a walking tour if you’re up to it.”

Crinkling his nose, Stiles sighed. “I don’t usually suffer from motion sickness although I’ve never been out on the ocean. I guess walking is safer.”

“It will give us an opportunity to see if Theo is taking the bait. Why don’t you get dressed and knock on the door when you’re ready? I’d like you to meet the rest of the team before we leave for lunch.” Peter made it sound like a suggestion but Stiles knew he was just sharing the plan and Stiles had little input into it. 

His stomach growled loudly. “Wait, what about breakfast?” This was a bed and breakfast after all.

“It’s almost Noon but I’m sure we could find a place that serves a breakfast menu. See you shortly.” Peter’s eyes twinkled as he stepped back into the other room.

Stiles rolled out of bed and moved straight to the bathroom, his bladder making its need to empty impossible to ignore. Once that was taken care of he started the shower, letting the water heat. He quickly stripped out of his boxer-briefs, the only article of clothing he had on, and set them on the sink counter.

“Eep!” Stiles caught sight of himself in the mirror, shocked at his hairstyle. The combination of wind and sleep had tangled it, and in its too long state it had somehow puffed out, so that he resembled a wild-haired, naked troll doll from his childhood. The only thing missing was a gemstone in his bellybutton. No wonder Peter had nearly been laughing at him.

Jumping beneath the spray of the shower, he lathered up and rinsed quickly. He used some of the conditioner his friend, Lydia, had pushed on him in the hopes he could untangle the mess on top of his head.

He took a bit more time with the rest of his grooming, shaving his face and trimming the hair on his groin; he might not be able to easily tame his hairstyle without a decent cut but he could manage the rest of his hair. After powering through the trimming, he brushed his teeth and then gargled with the complimentary mint mouthwash while stroking the deodorant onto his pits.

Stiles wrapped the damp towel back around his waist and went in search of clothing. He was pawing through his bag, looking for a clean pair of jeans when he heard something.

A whisper.

 _Stiles_.

Whirling around, Stiles hoped he’d find Peter or Jordan but he was the only one in the room.

Stiles knew stress could make your mind play tricks on you but what if this was something else? With his family history he worried it could be the _something else_ but he didn’t have time to get it checked out, not while they were trying to catch Theo.

Quickly dressing in clean clothing—the last of his clean clothing so he would have to find a laundromat—Stiles shoved his feet into the Vans, grabbed the cell phone and wallet, and knocked on the laced infested French door.

Jordan welcomed him into the room and Stiles bit his lip to keep from showing his amusement; the room, already filled with two double beds topped with lacey canopies, now held five adults and there just wasn’t enough room for them all.

“Stiles, this is the rest of our team. Bobby Finstock and Greenberg are going to help me monitor your movements from a distance while Peter accompanies you today. Since Theo has seen Peter maybe you can play up being an item and we’ll see if that draws him out.” Stiles shivered happily at the thought of being an item with Peter but this was just make believe for the job so he ordered himself to be professional. He shook hands with Finstock, surprised at the overly long hair the older agent was sporting, primarily in bristly spikes, although Stiles had no room to talk when it came to overly long hair. 

Greenberg, first name unknown, flailed a hand in the air in greeting from where he was crammed into the far corner of the room. 

Peter rose gracefully to his feet from the side of the bed where he’d been lounging. “Good, you’re wearing Levi’s. We’re going to have you tuck this miniature GPS tracker into the fifth pocket of your jeans. It’s so small that if you’re searched it should remain undetectable.”

It made sense but what no one mentioned was that if Stiles was stripped of his clothing, their ability to track him would be lost. He certainly didn’t want to dwell on that thought. 

He held his hand out when Peter produced the flat, miniscule chip the size of a coffee bean. Peter ignored his hand and instead tugged at Stiles’s front right pocket, tucking the chip between the fabric.

Stiles’s groin took note of Peter’s nearness and the jeans felt considerably tighter in a certain area. He stepped back, embarrassed, before heading out the French door into his room. “Let me grab the hoodie and I’m ready to go.”

Peter stayed next to Stiles as the other agents exited into the fresh air, going their separate ways. Stiles could see the earpiece Peter wore and almost asked if he could have one but then stopped himself; as much as he wanted to pretend he was an agent, he was the bait in this operation. 

They headed back to the same area as yesterday, turning on to East Bay Street, but instead of going to Magnolia’s they crossed the street to a red brick-faced establishment, Poogan’s Smokehouse. “They serve brunch items as well as lunch. Is this okay?”

The smoky barbecue smell spilled out onto the sidewalk and Stiles’s stomach gurgled. “More than okay. It smells great.”

They were shown to a wood table with stools that looked like they’d be uncomfortable but Stiles’s attention was immediately taken with the brick wall behind the long wood bar. Okay, maybe it was the three big screen TVs that caught his attention. 

“Would you rather sit at the bar?” The hostess asked.

A baseball game was playing on one of the TVs and Stiles immediately turned to Peter when he saw who was playing. “Is that okay?”

Peter smiled indulgently. “Of course.”

The mint green low backed stools looked more comfortable than the stools at the tables and Stiles sank gratefully onto one. Menus were handed to them and Stiles tore his focus from the Mets and quickly found something that appealed.

The bartender gave them a few minutes, Stiles losing himself in the powerful delivery of Noah ‘Thor’ Syndergaard’s pitching.

“What can I get ya’ll?” The auburn-haired man asked as he sauntered up to them.

Peter indicated Stiles should order first. “I’d like the Smokehouse Breakfast. Over easy with bacon and white cheddar grits, with coffee, please.” The grits he’d ordered at Magnolia’s were delicious so he was interested to see if white cheddar grits stacked up to them.

Alan, the bartender, smiled widely at him, nodding his approval, before asking for Peter’s order.

“Mmm, I’d like the Pulled Pork with the Red-Neck Kimchee and Breakfast Potato Hash.” Peter’s order sounded perfect and Stiles was tempted to change his own but he really wanted breakfast and coffee. He still felt fuzzy headed although that could be a holdover from his headache, sleeping too long or…nope. He wasn’t going to think on any other reasons right now. Not with good food on the way, the Mets playing and Peter at his side.

“And to drink?” Alan prompted.

“I’ll have a Coke, please.”

“What kind?”

“What kind do you have?” Peter sounded confused but then so was Stiles. He expected Alan to reel off options like Diet and Cherry.

Instead Alan ran down the litany of all of their soda drinks. 

“I think I’d like a regular Coca Cola, please.” Peter tried again.

The bartender moved off to place their order. Peter turned to say something to Stiles but stopped when Alan returned with their drinks.

Once the man moved to the other end of the bar, Peter gook a sip of his drink. “I didn’t realize Coke was the catchall for all soda drinks here.”

Stiles remembered his adventure with sweet tea yesterday and laughed. “There are definitely some differences between here and where I grew up.”

Peter didn’t waste any time. “Speaking of that, where did you grow up?” 

Stiles took a sip of his coffee before answering. He figured all of that information would be available to the agent so was this just curiosity? Or was Peter trying to see if his story matched up? “Not far from where we first met. My dad is a county sheriff and although I like the town I grew up in, I wanted to see other parts of the country.”

“You wanted to get away from your father?” Peter probed.

“I love my dad but living in his shadow was a pretty tall order.” Stiles took another sip from the excellent coffee. He felt like he was starting to wake up properly now. Maybe caffeine was what he’d been missing yesterday although he was pretty sure sweet tea had the stimulant, too. “What about you? Are you close with your family?”

Stiles knew nothing about Peter but he cursed himself as the other man’s face closed off. Apparently this was a touchy subject and he’d blundered right into it.

Peter took a gulp of his drink. “I don’t really discuss my family when I’m working.”

“Fair enough.” Stiles was proud of himself for keeping his voice even. Peter’s answer had hurt him but Stiles knew Peter was on the job and he couldn’t afford distractions. 

Alan stopped by to top off Stiles’s coffee and he smiled gratefully at the other man for his well-timed interruption. The bartender took this as an invitation and soon the two men were chatting about baseball, Alan most recently pulling for the Yankees which gave Stiles an opportunity to concentrate on something else.

“I can understand supporting a former player of the Gamecocks in Tyler Webb but you’re really going to pull for the Yankees? They lack soul.” Stiles argued.

“You’re right. I just wanted to wind you up. My daddy is actually a Mets fan so that’s who I pull for.” Alan shared.

Stiles was trying to wrap his mind around a grown man referring to his father as _daddy_ but he didn’t know how to tactfully ask about it.

Peter drained his glass and set it on the bar with a loud clink. Stiles looked at Peter out of the corner of his eye, noticing the agent’s mouth was set in a firm line, but he didn’t know how to break the tension. 

“Let me get you another drink and I bet your order is ready, too.” Alan wasn’t bothered by Peter’s surliness but then again working in the service industry he was probably used to all types of personalities. 

The bartender came back with their food and they dug into their plates. “The grits are great. I’m going to have to learn how to cook them when I get home. How’s the barbecue?”

Peter picked at his plate. “The mustard is a little too strong for my liking.”

Alan choose that moment to walk about and seemed to take issue with Peter’s comment. “Charleston is famous for its Carolina Gold mustard-based barbecue.”

Peter seemed caught off guard. “I guess I didn’t realize that. I’m used to something less sweet.”

“Can I bring you something else?” Alan’s tone had considerably cooled.

“Oh, no. My apologies. The kimchee is really quite delightful.” Peter tried to make amends.

The bartender harrumphed and moved off.

“They must take their barbecue very seriously here,” Stiles offered. “Did you need a different Coke to choke your lunch down with?” He couldn’t keep a straight face despite biting on his lip.

Peter scowled but then he broke into laughter. “Sure. Did you want to switch to tea?”

“Touché’.” Stiles picked up his coffee cup and saluted Peter with it before taking a gulp.

They finished up their meal with little interruption, Alan only stopping one more time to top Stiles’s coffee off. 

Despite not finishing his meal, Peter left a large tip. Stiles was charmed.

They stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the bright of the afternoon sun, Peter taking his arm to guide him.

Stiles was happy to walk off his meal, admiring the various shops and restaurants lining the cobblestone road they had turned onto. They were the last people in a group crossing on the light on their way to whatever tour Peter had lined up and despite the brightness, Stiles was enjoying being outdoors with the sunshine on his face and the breeze teasing his hair.

A car revved its engine and Stiles hustled, his long legs having to work to keep up with Peter’s pace. 

A bank of clouds obscured the sun and Stiles was happy to be wearing the hoodie as the temperature seemed to cool.

Peter looked at him over his shoulder. “Stiles, I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t like to talk about—”

Stiles’s foot hit a crack, or maybe it was shock that Peter was explaining himself. He righted himself as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, jumping for the curb.

Instead of landing on the sidewalk, he found himself airborne.

-0-

Peter was almost too slow in recognizing the threat. He reached back and grabbed Stiles’s flailing hand, pulling him forward, out of the path of the car. Between Stiles’s attempt to get clear of the car, and Peter’s shifter strength, Stiles flew through the air.

There was a loud _thunk_ and Peter worried the vehicle had clipped Stiles despite his best efforts.

Trying to minimize the damage and still make it look natural, Peter caught Stiles’s back to his chest and they slammed into the sidewalk, rolling a few times before coming to a stop.

Peter’s own heartbeat was loud in his ears, the rate too fast, as adrenaline kicked through his system. They had ended up on their sides, Stiles the little spoon to Peter’s big one, a mockery of lovers tangled in sleep. 

Only Stiles wasn’t sleeping. He also wasn’t moving.

He’d monitored the area with his senses and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. If only he hadn’t distracted Stiles while they were in the crosswalk. 

Peter had wanted Stiles to know why his family was not a topic of conversation he indulged in. He wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself but Stiles hadn’t made a big production out of his rebuffing his question and that was the first time in a long time someone hadn’t pushed him for details.

He’d caught Stiles’s attention when he looked over his shoulder and started apologizing and that’s when the car had tried to mow Stiles down.

He needed to assess the area for further threats. He needed to calm down in order to do that.

He needed Stiles to talk or move or do something other than just lie on his side, his left hand planted next to his face, his right curled under his cheek. As though he was curled up, taking a nap.

Peter finally heard his fellow agents in his earpiece, demanding sitreps and exchanging information.

The red Kia Soul was long gone as Peter rolled to his knees, hand on Stiles’s left shoulder, confirming that he was indeed breathing.

The Kia Soul had one of the more recognizable shapes of the current vehicles available, second maybe to a VW Bug, so what imbecile would use it in an assassination?

Stiles’s muscles tensed beneath Peter’s hand and he groaned. “Ow.”

A siren approached, the wailing louder by the second, kickstarting Peter’s basic first aid skills. “Don’t try to move.”

Parrish was there, moving bystanders back, requesting room.

Finstock and Greenberg were arguing, or at least Finstock was reaming out Greenberg, but Peter didn’t sense any other violent threats.

Stiles, despite Peter’s request, rolled onto his back. “That’s better. My hip was getting sore.”

Peter’s fingers itched to draw pain from Stiles but the paramedics needed to be able to assess him accurately, pain being a huge indicator in triaging injuries.

“Did we almost get run over by a Kia Soul? What dumbass would use that car for vehicular manslaughter?” Stiles groused. He was pale but he was conscious and his higher functioning seemed to be intact, his words echoing Peter’s earlier thoughts.

A bark of laughter escaped Peter’s lips and Stiles smiled in response. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Did you happen to get a look at the driver?” Peter needed to start thinking like an agent. His job was to keep Stiles safe and he’d failed spectacularly at it but maybe he could salvage some intel.

“I think it was a woman. Shoulder length dark hair.” Stiles lifted his left hand, probably to rub at his face in thought, but he looked at the palm of his hand. “Oh, that’s why it hurts.” He lowered his hand to his chest, grimacing.

If Stiles had been pale before, he’d moved to an even lighter shade if that was possible. The beauty marks stood out in stark relief, along with his brown eyebrows and dark lashes, against the colorless backdrop.

The reason Stiles’s eyelashes were highly visible was that his eyes were closed. “Stiles?”

“I don’t like blood. Specifically my own,” Stiles wheezed, his eyes still closed, husky voice faint.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you please step back?”

Peter nearly snarled at the man in the paramedic uniform but Parrish clamped a hand on his shoulder, perhaps in censure or in solidarity.

Reluctantly pushing to his feet, Peter stepped back.

Another paramedic, a woman this time, approached him. “Do you have pain anywhere, sir?”

Peter automatically began to deny he was injured but he recovered himself at the last moment. “I think my friend cushioned my fall. I have some general aches and pains but nothing sharp.”

“I’d like to check you over just in case. Do you feel up to stepping over to my rig?” 

He looked over his shoulder at Stiles, unwilling to leave him, but realized his behavior was straining credibility. He could’ve identified himself as being FBI, and that Stiles was in protective custody, but the bigger issue was not drawing attention to his accelerated healing. Peter caught Parrish’s eye. “Stay with him. Please.”

The paramedic took him by the arm and led him to the ambulance. She checked his pupil reactions and cleaned a deep scrape on his arm, one he hadn’t even noticed. He’d already had time to heal so he wondered how much damage there had been initially. Once he was bandaged, he was given the standard warning about seeking medical assistance if he felt dizzy, had trouble breathing, etc.

Excusing himself, Peter returned to Stiles in time to hear an argument in process. “I really think you need to be checked out by a doctor.”

“Don’t you have something I can sign releasing you of liability?” Stiles was sitting up, lower lip pouty in belligerence. His color was better but Peter knew he’d been unconscious and that was a bad sign in humans.

Peter tried reasoning with him. “Stiles, don’t you think—?”

“I think plenty and I think I’m not going to the hospital. Now help me up.” He stuck out his hands, gauze wrapped around both of them, in silent demand.

Peter took one elbow and Parrish took the other and soon Stiles was on his feet. He wobbled for a moment but then stabilized.

The paramedic stuck a clipboard out and Stiles gritted his teeth as he took it and scrawled a signature. The man in uniform huffed away, mumbling about idiots not knowing what was good for them.

Parrish cleared his throat. “We need to make a statement to the local PD and then we can get out of here.”

All three of them kept their statements short and sweet. They exchanged contact information with Officer Williams, and Parrish pulled out his FBI ID, explaining their need to get out of the public and that Finstock and Greenberg would explain things in detail and answer further questions for the officer.

The officer expeditated the encounter and graciously dropped them back at the bed and breakfast.

Peter stuck behind Stiles as he slowly made his way upstairs. The injured man stifled groans but he made it without incident, Peter guiding Stiles into the shared room once Parrish made sure it was clear.

Stiles looked longingly at the nearest surface, a bed, but remained standing. “Now what?” He sighed.

“We need to get you to a safehouse.” Parrish spoke up before Peter could; at least he was in agreement with Peter.

Stiles’s shoulders slumped but he didn’t argue.

Peter’s Nana had lived up the coast and the property was still owned by the family. It was easily defensible by virtue of its location and no one knew about his connection to the Sullivans. It could easily house as many agents as were deemed necessary although he thought he and Parrish could handle the assignment by themselves. The details would get worked out but he had a plan.

“I think I know just the place.” 

-0-

Stiles had moved past achy and was now firmly in pain. His hip and shoulder hurt, having taken the brunt of his fall. His head hurt from smacking into the sidewalk. Even the palms of his hands, scraped raw from his tumble, were unhappy. 

He wanted to take some pain reliever, slip between the sheets and sleep.

Instead he was bundled into the back of the rented car, Peter sliding in next to him, Jordan taking the wheel. Peter helped him with his seatbelt which made him feel like a little kid. He should’ve been more interested in where he was going, and protesting Peter’s attentions, but he just wanted to close his eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?” Peter’s concerned voice interrupted his attempt to find sleep.

“I don’t need a doctor.” Stiles mumbled. He belatedly tacked on a soft, “Thanks.”

“Is there anything you do need?” Peter was being very solicitous and Stiles should be grateful but really, he needed the other man to shut the fuck up.

“Quiet?” Stiles begged. As much as he wanted to snarl and growl he didn’t feel up to it. If he didn’t get to rest soon though, he was pretty sure he was either going to throw a temper tantrum or burst into tears. He was emotionally taxed and now physically, too.

Peter sounded amused. “Why don’t you close your eyes and try to get some rest then. I’ll let you know when we get there.” 

_Finally_. Stiles leaned his less bruised side against the door, pressing his head against the window. The cool tempered glass felt nice against his skin.

“You’re going to get a crick in your neck if you do that. Here, lean this way.” Peter somehow manhandled Stiles away from the door, into his side, his arm bracing Stiles, hand resting against Stiles’s forearm.

Stiles instantaneously felt relief, his body relaxing. This wasn’t the behavior of an FBI agent but then again Stiles wasn’t one so he decided to enjoy the comfort Peter was supplying.

It was easy to doze, the skies now cloudy and gray instead of sunlight pounding into his aching head. Jordan and Peter spoke quietly and Stiles, usually terminally curious, listened to the cadence of their voices but this time he blocked out the content.

_Find the Aconite. Remember I showed you some? You’ll recognize the tall, erect stem with the purple flowers. The one that has a petal like a cylindrical helmet?_

_Stiles!_

Stiles gasped awake, pain flaring through his shoulder and hip as he bolted upright in the seat. The pain in his head ignited in an evil symphony of discomfort, throb, hurt.

“Stiles?” 

Lifting his palms to his face to scrub at his eyes, disoriented by the dream, Stiles halted when the white gauze caught his attention. At least his hands didn’t hurt anymore. In fact if he hadn’t moved so abruptly, he’d feel pretty good as his other injuries felt much better.

“Hey, Stiles, we’re here.”

“I’m awake,” Stiles mumbled. Or at least he was trying to be more aware. 

Jordan and Peter opened their doors and moved into the humid air. Stiles looked outside and noticed the sun was still in hiding, the clouds having increased during his siesta.

“Do you need a hand?” Peter offered, leaning over and staring at Stiles.

Stiles tried to slide toward the door but he got nowhere fast; the seatbelt held him hostage. He fumbled with the catch and finally found freedom, able to carefully shimmy along the bench seat. He practically tumbled out of the vehicle but his legs stabilized and he found his balance, cautiously stretching his back.

Jordan was grabbing their bags out of the trunk and Stiles lazily followed his motions, still trying to get his bearings.

“Are you ready to head inside?” Peter was at his elbow but he didn’t get close enough to touch. Stiles wasn’t sure if he wanted the distance or if he missed the constant contact.

“Where are we?” Stiles looked around, his attention finally caught by the imposing building in front of them.

He knew he goggled but Stiles couldn’t help himself. The place was massive, and gorgeous, and if Stiles had been smitten before by the local architecture he had now fallen deeply in love with it.

There were three sections to the three-story building, each section having its own hipped roof. The first floor featured tall, and massive, windows that arched gracefully. The middle section had a tower rising up, more arched windows circling it; he thought it was called a cupola and it reminded him of some of the church spires he’d seen in Charleston. White balconies graced the second and third floors in the middle section. There were circular windows with arches, and glazed doors, and…he loved it.

Peter did take his upper arm, guiding him toward the door. An older man, tall and vital looking, greeted them. “Welcome, Peter. It’s been too long.” He drew Peter into a stiff-backed hug. “Are you going to visit Laura and Derek while you’re here?”

“Let me get my friends settled and then I’ll come back down and we can visit.” Peter’s tone was kind but firm.

Stiles’s muddled brain didn’t have time to dwell on Robert, the Majordomo, to whom he was quickly introduced, or these Laura and Derek persons who had some connection to Peter, before he found himself shepherded up the majestic light-colored marble staircase replete with black wrought iron balustrade configured into intricate scrolling designs topped by a smooth, rich brown railing. When he’d been a child, he would’ve ridden down the winding railing without a doubt.

He tried to picture Peter as a child, zipping down the staircase on the railing, but he couldn’t summon the energy to ask the other man about it. It was near impossible for Stiles to trudge upstairs, any liveliness he’d gained by his snooze in the car ride here completely depleted. When Peter showed him into a large bedroom dominated by a wood sleigh bed, marble fireplace and gorgeous hardwood flooring, Stiles did no more than barely glance at them before he toed off his Vans and slumped onto the mattress.

When he woke up he hoped to explore his temporary lodgings, and maybe wheedle some information out of the Majordomo. 

Stiles tumbled into sleep with the thought he had just stumbled into a regency romance complete with gothic estate, hired help and a brooding hero. 

-0-

Peter had missed Robert but he hadn’t missed feeling like he was being judged; the older man had raised his eyebrows when Peter had explained they were working and he didn’t think he’d have the time to visit his family. Thankfully Robert had left this morning to visit his daughter and her family who lived inland. Robert said he was too old to wait out the hurricane on the coast and that he was leaving that to the younger staff.

And Peter.

He stared out the bank of windows facing the ocean and thought the worsening weather might just be the lucky break they needed; Theo would find it difficult to make an attempt on Stiles’s life if the winds pushed 50 mph with lashing rain. That might buy their team enough time to find and apprehend, or if he got lucky, kill, the preppy arms dealer.

Thinking of Stiles, Peter went upstairs, fondly patting the wood railing; he’d gotten in trouble more times than he could count by taking the railing instead of the stairs. That was just one way he’d managed to get up close and personal with his Nana’s wagging index finger and the memorable brown tourmaline gemstone she wore on it. 

The one that resembled Stiles’s pretty eyes.

Peter had to stop those thoughts in their tracks. Until this was over, Stiles was a job, not a beau.

As he approached Stiles’s bedroom, he could hear the water blasting in the shower. Excellent. Stiles was awake. Peter had drained off more pain than he’d intended on the car ride up and he’d been worried when Stiles had all but collapsed into the bed. For a while Peter had left him clothed but when Stiles had shown no signs of waking in the evening, he’d tugged the jeans and socks off, leaving the rest on for modesty’s sake.

Peter stayed by the door, listening as Stiles finished his shower, dried off and brushed his teeth. The bathroom door opened and he heard Stiles rifling through his bag, cursing softly. “I needed to do laundry, like, yesterday.”

Peter’s wolf pranced with happiness as Peter went to his own room to find clean clothing. He still had things in the dresser form when he was a teen and he estimated that would fit Stiles, at least better than his own size. He grabbed a worn pair of Levi’s, a t-shirt, pair of socks and his fingers lingered over his boxer briefs; he’d gone through a stage where he’d accumulated quite a collection, based more on texture and cut rather than color. He grabbed an unopened package of what turned out to be a mix of navy Jockey nylon-spandex underwear—one boxer-brief, one brief and one thong. He wondered which one Stiles would choose and then marched out of his bedroom and down the hallway to Stiles’s room, knocking briskly on the door, thinking of anything except what Stiles would look like in a thong.

The door cracked open and Peter held up his offering. “I come bearing gifts.”

Stiles swung the door open and made grabby hands. “Thank you. I really need to do some laundry and I was just trying to figure out what my least offensive options were at the moment.”

“I can show you to the laundry room. How are you feeling today?” Peter soaked up the sight of the bare-chested Stiles, green towel wrapped around his slim waist. There was dark bruising on one shoulder and it trailed down both his arm and ribs. Peter knew the hip would be equally marked.

“Remarkably well, considering.” Stiles went into the bathroom and Peter imagined him pulling on the borrowed clothing. It was when Stiles ripped into the plastic holding the underwear and let out an appreciative sounding, “Huh,” that Peter realized he needed to get out of the bedroom and focus on something else.

He cleared his throat. “Are you hungry?”

Stiles’s stomach rumbled so loudly that even without his enhanced hearing, Peter was certain he would’ve heard it. “Definitely. But you don’t have to wait on me.” Stiles called out.

“I enjoy cooking. The kitchen is on the first floor. Take a left at the bottom of the stairs and follow your nose.” Peter hightailed it out of Stiles’s room before his wolf did something embarrassing.

The kitchen was a dream to work in, and well stocked as he’d expected, so he made a Denver omelet and put English Muffins in to toast. 

Approaching footsteps heralded Stiles’s arrival. “It smells fantastic, Peter. What can I do to help?”

“Pull up a stool and keep me company while this finishes cooking. Oh, the coffee is on the counter over there if you want to help yourself.” Peter pointed in the general direction, and smiled as Stiles drifted that way, pouring a mug and inhaling deeply before taking a gulp.

“Thank you, I needed this.” Stiles came back, clutching the mug, a dreamy look on his face.

Peter laughed. Stiles seemed more carefree, and relaxed, in this setting. 

Once the omelet was done, he split it in half across two plates, adding the English Muffins. He set the plates on the island by Stiles before detouring for orange juice and an assortment of jams along with juice glasses. Once he had those settled in front of the other man he grabbed cutlery. “Dig in. You haven’t had anything to eat in almost twenty-four hours.”

Stiles finished the omelet in six bites before he spread Abbott Farms Old Fashioned Apple Butter on his muffin. “That’s from a local farm. Well local as in from South Carolina, not in this county.”

“How do you know that but you don’t know the locals refer to all of their soft drinks as Coke?” Stiles asked before he took a large bite of muffin, humming his approval of the taste. 

Peter forgot how clever Stiles was supposed to be. “I visited my grandmother here almost every summer but we didn’t really leave Sullivan’s Landing.”

“Is that what this compound is called? Can we walk around a bit?” Stiles fired the questions quickly, making Peter blink. The pain-drain, and long rest, had definitely done the man some good.

Letting Stiles outside might not be the most secure option. Then again anyone approaching would have to arrive by car—there was only one road—or boat. There was only one place on this stretch of coast fit for docking which was how the plantation had earned its name of Sullivan’s Landing. By foot was another option but Peter should be able to detect anyone approaching the property. 

Peter should be able to protect Stiles as long as they didn’t stray from the main property.

“All right. Let me put the frypan in to soak and load the dishwasher. We can take some fresh air before the weather gets too bad.” Peter was agreeable to the plan, his wolf excited to visit the property, too. It had been too long since he’d been back here.

“I can help.” Stiles gathered stacked the cutlery on his plate and then stacked the plates, wincing as he picked them up.

Peter realized Stiles’s palms were no longer wrapped with gauze. “I’ll take those. You shouldn’t exacerbate your wounds. After I finish here I’ll get some gauze and we’ll bandage you back up.”

Stiles handed the plates over and then hid his hands behind his back. “I’d rather let the air at them, dry them out a bit.”

“Stiles, we have a hurricane approaching and it’s extremely humid. There will be no drying out of anything, at least not for the next few days.” Peter explained.

“There’s a hurricane? I’ve never been in a hurricane. How did I not know there was a hurricane?” Stiles rambled with nervous excitement. His scent was clean so at least he wasn’t unduly anxious about the weather event.

Peter remembered Stiles was asleep when the news had broken. “It’s only a Tropical Storm at the moment but it’s gaining energy and the forecast is for a lesser category hurricane to make landfall in two days. This one is named Alberto.” In fact on its current course, the hurricane would make landfall here in conjunction with the full moon. The confluence of events would generate incalculable amounts of power and Peter’s wolf was already straining with glee. 

“You mean a Category 1? So that’s like 74-95 mph winds. Are they expecting flooding?” Stiles was an encyclopedia of knowledge which Peter supposed went hand in hand with him being clever.

Clever and intuitive. “Yes, flooding is a possibility. There’s a levee system that might not be able to handle the expected capacity seeing as the water levels around here are high from the wet winter. But don’t worry, Sullivan’s Landing can weather a Category 1 without a problem. We might be cut off from the rest of the world for a while but we’ll weather the storm.” Peter hadn’t really thought about being isolated—just Peter and Stiles, maybe Parrish, and the two gardeners Robert had mentioned to him—and he worried about his wolf’s continued interest in the human.

Stiles practically beamed, his smile infectious. “I love weather, especially when no one gets hurt by it. Thank you for bringing me here.”

Peter only wished they were here under better circumstances but he held his tongue. Stiles had been stressed out enough in the last week so it wouldn’t hurt to give him a reprieve.

Peter’s wolf howled in the back of his mind with approval.

-0-

Stiles followed Peter out a back door that spilled onto a pool area reminiscent of the Neptune Pool at Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California, albeit on a smaller scale. The pool itself was gorgeous but the marble, and Roman colonnades, were the center piece.

Serious money went into building this estate and Peter definitely gave off the vibe of someone accustomed to having access to the finer things. Stiles felt out of place here but he still appreciated the beauty.

“We’re going to stop at the greenhouse and meet the gardeners. I’ll give you a tour of the garden and then we can meander down by the water for a while. How does that sound?” Stiles barely had an opportunity to close his gawking mouth before Peter looked over his shoulder to see if Stiles agreed with his plan.

“Absolutely. Whatever you want.” Stiles tore his eyes away from Peter’s handsome visage to enjoy the flourishing greenery.

His attention wandered back to Peter’s muscled ass flexing in denim so he wasn’t prepared when the clear building rose up as if magically from the rolling hillside. A true greenhouse.

Peter opened the door and called inside. “Hello?”

An attractive African American young man moved toward them. “You must be Peter. Hi, I’m Mason.” 

Stiles watched as Peter shook hands with him but when Stiles was introduced, Peter said, “My friend’s palms are skinned up so he can’t shake your hand.”

Mason smiled, undeterred, and called over his shoulder, “Hey, Corey, come meet Mr. Hale!”

A guy who looked to be about Mason’s age, but shorter with pale skin, trotted down the rows of tables. “Hi, Mr. Hale, Robert said you’d be staying through the storm. We’ve just been getting things ready.”

“Please, call me Peter. And this is my friend. We’re going to walk through the garden but from everything I’ve seen so far, you’re doing a great job.” Peter’s words of praise seemed to make the two young men practically glow. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ll get out of your way.”

Mason seemed to be more at ease with social interactions and spoke for the staff. “We’ll be in the gardener’s cottage if you need anything.”

Peter thanked them again and ushered Stiles out of the greenhouse. He beckoned Stiles down a beaten pathway and Stiles found his sore muscle loosening up with the exercise.

“This is amazing.” Stiles didn’t even bother hiding his enthusiasm. He couldn’t imagine being a kid and playing here. Hell, if he wasn’t so sore he’d be tempted to throw on a pair of shorts and run.

A gust of wind rustled through the tree branches, reminding Stiles that he wouldn’t be outdoors for very long.

Peter stopped walking and Stiles almost ran into his back. “This is it. My Nana’s garden.”

His guide started moving again and Stiles followed, head swiveling from side to side, taking in the sights. The first thing that grabbed his attention was a foliate face with ivy and other plants flowing for its mouth, nose and ears. “That’s the Green Man. He’s a myth but my Nana used to tell me if I didn’t behave, she’d sacrifice me to the Green Man.”

He liked the fact that Peter spoke of his grandma with such reverence but talk about harsh. “She sounds like she was a character.”

“You have no idea.” Peter laughed quietly but didn’t explain what appeared to be an inside joke.

“There’s the obligatory holly, ivy, moss and ferns,” Peter pointed at the lush range of greens lining the stone path. “But Nana really like color. Here’s some burgundy shamrock.” Stiles admired the large, deep burgundy leaves and pale pink, star-shaped flowers. Peter continued, “Her pride and joy was this wall.”

Stiles blinked. He could barely make out an actual wall due to the dark green leaves and bright red flowers. “Are those roses?”

He moved closer to investigate, going so far as to reach out and gently touch the blooms.

“Careful!” Peter cautioned and Stiles jerked his hand, hissing as his raw palm made contact with something sharp. “These roses have thorns.”

Stiles snorted. “Roger that.” He cradled his injured hand in his other, pulling it close to his body.

“Let me see.” Peter put his hand out and Stiles laid it gingerly into the warmth. 

His palm was sore but lust hit Stiles in a strong wave. Peter lifted his hand closer to his face to inspect it and Stiles fidgeted. “Are you going to kiss my boo-boo for me?”

Something soft brushed his skin. Stiles jerked his hand away in a surprise and laughed. “Asshole. You really kissed it.”

Peter chuckled but the sound seemed hollow; he didn’t seem to be as amused as Stiles. “I don’t think you did any further damage,” Peter lowered his hand supporting Stiles’s and Stiles exhaled his breath.

They didn’t have time for this flirtation or whatever this was. 

But then why was Peter still holding his hand?

The mild wash of discomfort from the thorn receded. That was odd but Stiles was sore from his near miss with the Kia that he wasn’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth. “You’ve got the magic touch. Thank you.”

Peter held his hand for longer than was necessary but he finally released it. “If you can keep your hands to yourself, we’ll finish up here and go out to the landing.” Peter’s voice was a bit gruff and Stiles’s feelings were a bit hurt. 

But this wasn’t a vacation, and Peter wasn’t with him of his own volition.

He was just a job.

Trailing along behind Peter, Stiles caught sight of some purple flowers hidden beneath some ferns. “What’s that?”

Peter frowned. “Those are weeds. I’ll let Mason and Corey know so they can pull those.”

Stiles opened his mouth to protest—he liked the color—but something caught at his memory.

_Find the Aconite. Remember I showed you some? You’ll recognize the tall, erect stem with the purple flowers. The one that has a petal like a cylindrical helmet?_

That was Theo’s voice. When did they talk about flowers? It had to be a false memory.

_Stiles!_

Something touched Stiles’s elbow and he jerked back.

“Stiles, are you okay? We can go back to the house now if you’re tired.” Peter offered.

“No, no, I want to walk by the water.” Stiles pasted a smile on his face and Peter didn’t seem to buy it, but he didn’t press for more details.

What the hell was going on? Stiles wondered if he was losing his damned mind. Stress could account for some of it but not hearing Theo’s voice when the man wasn’t around.

Stiles needed to focus on the here and now. As they made their way through the garden, a recessed stone wall covered with ivy caught his attention; the pattern was one Stiles didn’t recognize with three spirals radiating from the center seemingly rotating . “What’s that?” 

Peter put his hand on the wall. “It’s a Celtic symbol and believed to represent a tale of forward motion to reach understanding. It’s also believed to represent the three Celtic worlds—the spiritual world, the present world and the celestial world.”

That tickled a memory from one of Stiles’s high research binges when he was still fighting to control his attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. “You mean like life-death-rebirth, spirit-mind-body, mother-father-child, past-present-future and creation-preservation-destruction?”

Peter smiled and nodded his approval. “Yes, something like that.” Another gust of wind shook the tree tops. “Let’s continue our walk before the weather spoils it.”

-0-

Peter didn’t take Stiles too much farther on the tour of the property; he was worried about him. They’d walked out by the landing and then Peter had guided Stiles back to the house, and his room. Stiles had been agreeable to laying down for a while, citing the fresh air—and strong wind—for tiring him out along with the exercise. Peter gave thanks for not being a fragile human although he acknowledged Stiles’s body was healing from the incident on the crosswalk.

Heading back downstairs Peter surveyed the lunch options. Robert had left a spread of cold cuts and cheeses with instructions to use the sourdough bread in the bread-keeper before it went stale. There was nothing to do at the moment.

Cracking open a can of flavored carbonated water, Peter thought back on their walk. For maybe a minute it seemed as though Stiles had checked out of the conversation, and the surroundings. He’d stared at the flowers and despite Peter calling his name several times, Stiles hadn’t responded. When he’d rejoined the present, he’d been pale and his scent was filled with anxious notes.

Had the injuries Stiles had suffered in the hit-and-run been worse than they’d thought? Peter had discretely inhaled but he didn’t detect a bleed anywhere, other than the small wound made by the rose’s thorn. Everything else seemed to be healing up, albeit more slowly than Peter liked. 

His cell phone rang and Peter plucked it from his pocket. It was Parrish. “Any news?” His partner was used to his blunt ways and wouldn’t find the lack of a greeting abnormal.

“Guess who has a red 2015 Kia Soul registered in their name?” Parrish didn’t sound smug; he sounded concerned.

“Raeken?” That would be quite the lead.

“Close. Tracy Stewart.” Parrish continued, “Here we were worried about Theo killing her and instead it seems more like she’s working with him.”

“Stiles did say he saw a female with dark hair behind the wheel so that matches her description. Let me know when you’ve got a solid lead on finding her.” Peter wasn’t Parrish’s superior, and he didn’t give him orders, but this whole situation was putting him on edge. 

“Of course. I’ll let you know what we turn up. I’ll stay in the city tonight, coordinating Finstock and Greenberg.” Parrish signed off. He’d answered the one question Peter had been on the verge of asking—if his partner would be returning—and unfortunately for Parrish, he wouldn’t be. Peter didn’t wish working with Finstock and Greenberg on anyone. They sometimes got results but it seemed like it was more luck than anything else. 

Wind hammered the back of the house and Peter went to the back door to make sure the patio furniture was secure. He’d barely noticed the area on his previous walk through, so busy keeping tabs on Stiles’s reaction to Sullivan’s Landing, which hadn’t disappointed. Stiles had seemed suitably wowed by the grand property. 

A glance out the back of the house assured him the furniture had been tucked away. Robert was always such a model of efficiency, even when he was nagging Peter about getting in touch with Laura and Derek.

Peter couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by his family issues. He had a job to do.

He was turning away from the bank of windows to return to the kitchen when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. 

His wolf pushed toward the surface; someone unaccounted for was on the property close to the house and he itched to give chase.

Peter couldn’t leave Stiles unprotected—that was his main duty at the moment.

Watching closely, he realized he recognized the gait of the man.

He recognized the clothing.

It was Stiles.

What was Stiles doing outside, unguarded?

Peter barely kept the wolf in check as he bolted outside. 

Whatever Stiles was doing, his scent wasn’t bothered. It was that memorable clean fragrance with the perfect balance of sweet and spicy. Citrusy, and minty, delicious mouth-watering apple and that rich wood foundation—all aromas that drove his wolf crazy.

His wolf wanted to pounce, Stiles prey to his hunter, but Peter reined the shifter side in. He sprinted forward and observed as his prey disappeared into his Nana’s garden.

He lost precious time as he skirted around the main entrance; he needed to make sure no one was following Stiles. Someone had already taken a run at him and Peter’s job was to keep him safe.

Stiles moved at a quick clip, seemingly focused on some task.

Peter perched atop the Triskelion wall, peering through the bobbing branches, waiting for Stiles to move back into his line of sight. It took longer than expected but Stiles finally appeared, zoning in on a certain part of the garden.

Stiles stopped by the climbing roses. He kneeled down and seemed to pluck something from the ground before standing up and moving closer to the red flowers dancing in the wind, clinging to the vines.

What was Stiles doing out here?

Peter jumped down from his perch and approached. Stiles continued to stare at the roses, muttering to himself. The wind caught his words and whipped them away so Peter only picked up some here and there.

_Purple._

_Moon._

_Blood._

As far as a new embodiment of the Triskelion goes, it didn’t make sense but that’s the first thing that came to Peter’s mind.

Approaching cautiously, Peter closed in on Stiles. He halted when he was six feet away.

“Stiles,” Peter called sharply.

Stiles ignored him.

The wind whipping through the garden was loud but not that loud. Stiles should’ve heard him.

Was Stiles ignoring Peter on purpose? He stalked forward, grabbing Stiles at the crook on an elbow, spinning him around.

Instead of jumping in surprise, or smirking, or doing anything that seemed like a comprehensible response, Stiles stared straight ahead.

Peter cupped the sides of Stiles’s face. His skin was cool and clammy. “Stiles?”

Stiles’s glassy eyes blinked this time. He licked his lips. “Peter?”

“What the hell are you doing out here alone?” Peter’s hands moved to rest on Stiles’s shoulders and he gave him a shake to emphasize the seriousness of his question.

Stiles flinched; Peter had momentarily forgotten the bruising on Stiles’s shoulder.

Stiles broke eye contact, looking around. “Why am I in the garden?”

Peter flared his nostrils. Stiles’s scent was filled with confusion.

And then anxiety.

Small tremors moved through him and Peter’s wolf wanted desperately to comfort the man.

Peter desperately wanted answers. “Come on, we need to get back to the house.”

Stiles stumbled along, no longer sure-footed, clinging to Peter’s hand as Peter towed him along. The trip was accomplished without speaking although Mother Nature was doing her best to give them a show. Low hanging clouds raced overhead and branches waved and dipped in response.

They entered the house via the main back door and Peter took Stiles to the kitchen, depositing at the kitchen island. Peter put water in the electric kettle and heated it. Stiles remained quiet as Peter pulled out a mug and the tin with tea from the cupboard, depositing them in front of him.

Peter struggled with the latch on the tin. The container was ancient and it had always stuck but now, after years spent in the humid air with disuse, it seemed as though the catch and lever had rusted together. He could easily crack the tin open but he was reluctant to break his Nana’s prized tea tin.

“I’m pretty good with opening things. Do you want me to try?” Stiles held his hand out. 

Peter handed over the tin; maybe giving Stiles something to do would help calm him down. Peter would force the lock carefully after Stiles failed—

The lid opened with a snick beneath Stiles’s nimble fingers. “I’ve always been lucky when it came to sticky locks.” He shrugged, handing the tin back to Peter.

Bemused, Peter plucked out the sachet of tea and put it in a mug. “Thank you. This is the blend my Nana always kept on hand. It’s organic chamomile bolstered by catnip and passionflower, both of which have mild sedative effects.” At least it had mild sedative effects on humans. A shifter’s metabolism burned through it too quickly for it to have any effect.

The kettle beeped once it reached boiling. Peter poured the water over it, enjoying the minty and apple-like scent. It actually resembled Stiles’s scent now that he thought about it and he’d always been attracted to its aroma. 

Peter pushed the mug toward Stiles. “That will warm you up.”

Stiles picked up the mug and took a small sip. He cradled the mug close to his chest, eyes downcast.

“Stiles, what the hell were you doing outside unescorted?” Peter tried to keep his tone in check but it still came out like a snarl.

Stiles set the mug down and drew a shaky hand through his windblown hair. “I’m…not really sure. I was dreaming about the garden. Maybe I was sleep walking?” Stiles looked up and made eye contact, chewing on his lip.

The anxiety leaking from him was making Peter’s wolf distressed. “You honestly expect me to believe you were sleep walking?”

Stiles’s eyelids shuddered his eyes and his shoulders drooped. 

The funny thing was, Stiles’s heartbeat hadn’t skipped when he’d mentioned sleep walking. He also hadn’t sounded like he knew what he was doing out there. It was very frustrating. How could Peter keep Stiles safe if he didn’t follow the simple rules? “You can’t go outside unescorted. Hell, at this point I feel like I should tie you to the bed.” 

Stiles’s heartrate kicked up at that and he reached out to pick up the mug, inhaling before sipping the tea. His hand held a slight tremor. 

His scent changed from anxiety to…lust?

Peter wasn’t unopposed to tying Stiles down but he hadn’t meant it in a sexual context. Now that the thought was out there, it was difficult to box it back up and put it away.

“Drink your tea. After that you’re going to accompany me while I do a floor-to-floor search of this section of the house. Someone could’ve gotten inside while we were in the garden.” Peter scratched his chin.

The more he thought about it, the more that seemed possible. Had Stiles lured him outside so that someone had the opportunity to break inside?

Of course there was one thing working against that plan—Peter’s wolf would scent out anyone who didn’t belong and that’s something Stiles, and any confederates, wouldn’t know about.

Maybe Stiles wasn’t the innocent in Theo Raeken’s arms dealing business after all.

-0-

Stiles’s muscles ached. He couldn’t get warm and his skin was clammy despite burrowing beneath the covers of his bed. 

He felt like he’d been put into the washing machine spin cycle and then thrown on the bed to dry in the humid air.

Peter had treated him with a professional air, seeing to his basic needs, before telling him to go to his room. He’d been warned that Peter would be across the hall, would hear if Stiles tried to leave his room, and then closed the door firmly in Stiles’s face.

Not that Stiles could blame Peter for being upset with him. Stiles had disappeared out of the house, unescorted, and ended up in Peter’s Nana’s garden. He could tell he’d lost Peter’s trust but the hell of it was, Stiles didn’t know why he’d ended up in the garden.

He’d fallen asleep on the bed to the windows rattling, exhausted by the events of the last twenty-four hours, or more like seventy-two hours, only to awaken with Peter shaking his sore shoulders as they stood in the garden by the climbing roses. 

It was surreal.

It was unsettling.

Either Peter was playing a colossal trick on him—and he knew that wasn’t the case because Peter had nothing to gain by doing that—or Stiles was losing his mind.

Nothing had shown up out of the ordinary on his MRI completed when he was 18; he’d been going through a stressful time and he’d exhibited some behaviors his dad found worrying so they’d ruled out damage due to Frontotemporal Dementia. He was required to have another in order to return to the FBI, it had always been a prerequisite for being cleared to work in the field, but he’d been dragging his feet, the thought of knowing his fate equally as scary as not knowing. 

He’d been fine with knowing until Harris had gotten inside his head. The FBI instructor had said a lot of stuff.

That Stiles was a cheat; he wasn’t, he’d just been preparing for that final exam for what felt like his whole life. 

And a manipulative liar; Stiles could be on occasion but that was a skillset the FBI actually valued in certain situations. He hadn’t, however, manipulated or lied to his mentor. 

_Non compos mentis._. That was the accusation that had damaged Stiles. Lately there were signs stacking up in favor of that argument but when he’d been at the Academy, what had Harris seen in him to make him think he was losing his mind?

Stiles drifted off to these uneasy thoughts, and strengthening winds slapping the side of the house. Not exactly the stuff of sweet dreams.

A loud crack snapped Stiles out of his uneasy sleep and he bolted upright, hand over his chest, panting. The overhead light illuminated a very unhappy Peter.

“Get. Up.”

Stiles gawked at the agent, trying to figure out what he could’ve done this time as he’d actually stayed in bed. At least he thought he had.

“I said, get up.” Peter grabbed his arm and pulled off the mattress, the covers tangling in his legs. Stiles would’ve fallen on his face if Peter hadn’t grabbed him around the waist and hauled him free of the grasping material.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles’s heartrate was rocketing. 

Peter didn’t answer him. Instead he locked his hand around Stiles’s wrist, hard, and pulled him out of the room, along the carpeted hallway and then down the stairs.

Stiles’s limbs were uncoordinated but he somehow remained upright. Peter dragged him to the back of the house, in front of the bank of windows facing the pool and pointed. “Tell me what you see.”

He shivered at the command in Peter’s voice. Stiles squinted his eyes and followed Peter’s index finger to see…lights. They were bobbing around, near where the garden would be if his memory was correct.

“Who’s out there? What’s going on?” Stiles couldn’t make sense of what was happening here. He only knew Peter was furious.

Peter let go of Stiles’s wrist and crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “Those are FBI agents. Why don’t you tell me what they’re going to find in the garden.” The words couched it as a question but the tone was anything but interrogative in nature. 

Stiles looked out the window again but he didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know.” It was becoming more difficult to draw breath into his lungs and Stiles realized he was on the verge of a panic attack.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” Peter snarled before he grabbed Stiles’s arm and marched him back to the kitchen.

Stiles found that saying funny, something to do with Peter’s name, and he laughed. Hysterically.

Peter shoved him onto a stool and then grabbed two tall shot glasses and a bottle of bourbon out of the same cupboard where the tea tin resided. “Drink!” Peter snarled as he shoved the filled shot glass at him.

Stiles, not wanting to anger Peter further, obliged him, gulping down the liquid. He’d always enjoyed the taste of bourbon, maybe a little too much, so he rarely drank it. 

Warming from the inside, Stiles’s shivering slowed and his breathing and heartrate returned to a more normal pace. 

His mind came back online, and he made eye contact. “What happened in the garden?”

“How do you know something happened in the garden?” Peter narrowed his eyes from across the kitchen island.

“ _You_ told me there were FBI agents in the garden.” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, matching Peter’s stare. Whatever was going on, Stiles didn’t feel like he’d played a part in it.

“A body was found in the garden. Mason and Corey found it.” Peter watched him carefully.

“And you think I did it?” Stiles dropped his arms, gaping. He’d known he’d lost Peter’s trust but he didn’t realize he’d already dropped into the category of unsub. Although it appeared Peter thought he was no longer the unknown subject.

It hurt. Quite a lot. Stiles thought he’d had a connection with Peter but it must’ve all been in his mind. Whatever was left of his mind.

“Did you?” Peter leaned his elbows on the counter.

“I’d think I’d know if I’d killed someone.” Stiles huffed.

“Really. You didn’t even know how you’d come to be in the garden earlier.” Peter’s tone was less hostile but still dripped with sarcasm. The intensity of his blue-eyed stare was uncomfortable.

Stiles would have to figure this out himself. At least he was good at solving puzzles. “So who was the victim?”

Peter shoved his cell phone over the counter and Stiles stared down. It was a standard Driver’s License ID but despite that the guy was somewhat attractive with sculpted cheekbones and bright blond hair. His lips were twisted in a sneer instead of a true smile. He looked cold-hearted. He looked like an asshole. “I don’t recognize him.”

With a sigh, Peter retrieved his phone. “His name is Garret Douglas.” 

Stiles searched his memory. Not that he could count on it anymore. But the name didn’t ring any bells and he didn’t look familiar. “I don’t remember him having any contact with Theo. Not while I was around.”

Peter’s nostrils twitched which was weird. He looked away from Peter, not wanting to see distrust, or disappointment or whatever the hell was going on with him. 

Something rattled and banged from the back of the house and Peter jumped to his feet.

Stiles slid off the stool, hand over his chest, trying to keep his heart from beating out of his body. 

Peter’s shoulders relaxed and then Jordan appeared in the kitchen. With a nod toward him, the barest of acknowledgments, Jordan moved to Peter’s side.

“Do we have a TOD and COD yet?” Peter wasn’t wasting any time on niceties. 

Jordan scratched the back of his neck and his attention swept over Stiles before returning to Peter, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Stiles doesn’t recognize Douglas. I believe him.” Peter’s answer surprised Stiles; he hadn’t known Peter believed him.

“ME estimated the time of death at 0200. COD was the same as Diaz—his throat was torn out.”

Stiles’s hearing went a little weird, like he was under water, or he had earplugs in. 

Warm hands anchored his arms and pulled him into a solid mass. 

“Just breathe, Stiles.”

That sounded like Peter. But Peter was mad at him. It didn’t make sense.

None of this made sense.

Stiles rested his chin on the strong shoulder in front of him and took the comfort offered.

-0-

Peter didn’t know what to think anymore. 

Jordan and the rest of the team had pulled out near dawn. They’d photographed and taken soil samples but, in the end, there wasn’t much more they could do, especially with Alberto increasing in strength.

Peter had listened to Stiles’s heartbeat as he told him about the newest vic and Stiles was telling the truth—he didn’t recognize him. Stiles had been with Peter at 0200 hours so he was cleared of Douglas’s murder.

Something was going on with the man but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with murder. 

There was also another problem looming. Peter’s wolf was becoming increasingly fractious and he’d initially blamed it on the approaching full moon. He didn’t think that was the cause though; he hadn’t been this close to losing control since he was a teen. The wolf was constantly nudging his mind, demanding to ascend to the fore.

Murder committed on his property, at least close enough to it, was another possible factor. Shifters, especially werewolves, were notoriously protective of their territory. Technically Sullivan’s Landing wasn’t his but his wolf had always felt differently about his Nana’s home. Family and territory could always be counted on for giving a wolf reason to kill if the threat was viable. 

Stiles was possibly the biggest contributor to his wolf’s restlessness. There was no denying the wolf wanted the human. Did the wolf want the human enough to kill for him? Stiles had been in the same clothing as earlier so unless he’d had the wherewithal to undress, slip out the door, murder the interloper, return, redress and conveniently forget about it, it seemed rather unlikely.

The pipes overhead chugged into life. Stiles was awake and taking a shower. He’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep which might not have been so bad if he hadn’t spent the last stretch of days traveling or bouncing off of a Kia. 

Peter went to the kitchen and started the coffee brewing. He preheated the oven, sliding the whole package of bacon spread across the roasting pan in when it beeped its readiness. The English muffins were in the toaster oven, waiting to be toasted and he’d turn that on and fry the eggs as soon as Stiles made his appearance. 

Footsteps on the stairs preceded the burst of Stiles’s clean scent. “Coffee should be ready.” Peter heard Stiles helping himself to the hot liquid as he turned on the toaster oven and then turned the heat up beneath the frypan. Soon the delightful smells of bacon and fried eggs competed with Stiles’s minty-apple scent.

Stiles grabbed plates and cutlery without being told. Another trip, this time to the refrigerator, and Stiles pulled out the jams and juice, and then glasses, arranging them on the kitchen island.

“Do you want your eggs on the English muffins or next to them?” Peter knew he sounded like the sous chef at a brunch, inquiring after an order, but he couldn’t make himself stop it. He knew they needed to have a serious talk, starting with his apology to Stiles, but first they both needed sustenance.

Stiles cleared his throat; his voice still sounded hoarse. “Next to them, please.”

Once the food was plated, and he’d pulled the bacon out of the oven and set it on the kitchen island so they could help themselves, Peter sank onto the stool across from Stiles.

Peter dug into the meal but Stiles took tentative bites, mainly pushing his food around with a fork. Standing up abruptly, Peter moved to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator and plucked out the hot sauce and salsa. He set them down before Stiles. “I suggest the salsa. It spices up the eggs but it’s not too hot.”

“I can handle heat just fine.” Stiles frowned as he said those words, avoided looking at Peter’s face. A slow blush heated his cheeks. “But the salsa looks delicious. Thank you.”

For a moment there Peter had thought Stiles was going to engage in some witty repartee. He wished he would; sitting across from Zombie Stiles was unsettling.

Grabbing some bacon, Peter pointed at the pan. “Help yourself.”

Stiles took two rashers with a quiet thank you.

This was getting painful.

Peter needed to replenish his energy stores so he helped himself to eight rashers. This time he felt the heat of Stiles’s stare. Peter smiled winningly. “What can I say? I enjoy meat.”

Stiles just about had an apoplectic fit, his face turning bright red as he choked on a swallow of juice. The other man waved off Peter’s offer to pound him on the back as he wheezed and coughed. Peter hadn’t meant to drown Stiles, only get him to loosen up a bit.

Sighing, Peter decided his apology couldn’t wait. They were going to be stuck together for at least the duration of the storm and he missed the easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed while in Charleston. “I apologize for manhandling you out of bed last night. I was worried and I needed answers.”

Setting his fork down, Stiles finally made eye contact. “You mean you thought I had murdered someone and you wanted to interrogate me. Whatever, I know you have a job to do and I respect that.” He rubbed at the crook of his elbow and Peter remembered wrapping his hand tightly around that area as he’d pulled Stiles from his comfortable nest. Peter’s wolf barked sharply, unhappy that he’d caused Stiles any type of pain. 

“I’m going to keep you safe, Stiles, but you have to tell me everything you know.” It didn’t escape Peter’s notice that Stiles hadn’t really accepted his apology. Although maybe saying he respected Peter’s job was Stiles’s way of acquiescing. 

Stiles pushed his plate away, food mostly uneaten, and sighed. “So what’s the next step?”

“We’re going to wait out the storm here. It appears Alberto will make land during the night. Mason and Theo are making sure the grounds are secure. Later this afternoon we’ll engage the motorized hurricane shutters to make sure there isn’t a danger of flying glass.” Peter was pretty certain Stiles would be interested in seeing the shutters deployed.

The other man perked up. “I’ve only seen pictures of those. Do they really work?”

Nodding while he chewed his last bite of bacon, Peter was happy to oblige. “Nana had the system upgraded after Hurricane Hugo hit in 1989 and Sullivan’s Landing has successfully weathered many tropical storms since then.”

Peter heard someone approaching the front door in a hurry and he stood up, putting himself between Stiles and the possible threat. Mason ran into the house, out of breath. 

Intercepting him, Peter put his hands on Mason’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, Mason?”

“It’s Corey. I can’t find him anywhere. What if he’s been…” the man let his thoughts trail away, too overwrought to complete them.

“Okay, when did you last see him?” Peter needed facts to work with.

Mason calmed a bit in response to Peter’s no-nonsense approach. “About an hour ago he said he was going to make sure the boat was secure at the landing. I went down there and he’s not there. What do we do?”

Peter didn’t like this. It could be a ploy to separate them. Or Corey could be in trouble. “You’re going to wait here at the house for my partner to arrive, and then bring him down to the landing. Stiles and I will search for Corey.”

It didn’t take long for Peter to contact Parrish who said he’d bring Finstock and Greenberg with him. Stiles went upstairs to pull on jeans and his hoodie, returning as Peter finalized arrangements. “Okay, Mason, you have my number. Call if something changes. Stiles and I are going to head for the landing and then move toward the creek. Call me when Parrish arrives.”

He didn’t like the idea of taking Stiles into the elements but Corey was also his responsibility since he was employed by the family to care for the grounds.

Peter’s wolf pranced, ready to stretch its legs. “Do not leave my side.” Peter actually wagged his index finger at Stiles’s face, just like Peter’s Nana used to do.

It seemed to have as much effect on Stiles as it had on Peter all those years ago; Stiles grabbed the hand with wagging finger and broke into a jog, moving toward the back of the house.

At least with their hands linked like this, it would be easy to keep tabs on Stiles.

-0-

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Peter, but this area has moved past atmospheric, right into creepy territory.” Stiles was awed by the land but the farther they moved away from the house, the more they seemed to be in their own little world.

The house was beautiful but from here it seemed solitary, rising up from the lush green like a stark monument. The clouds pressed down from the sky and the waves beat against the shore lending a further sense of isolation. 

“Wait until you see the creek. It’s just up ahead.” Peter kept a hand on Stiles’s arm and Stiles didn’t know if it was to assist his balance or if it was to keep Stiles from straying.

Despite being with Peter, touching him, Stiles felt alone. 

“We’ll stick to the path for now. The water tupelo and bald cypress have really grown since I was last here.” Peter commented. He spoke pleasantly but he was highly focused, checking every nook and cranny they passed for signs of the missing young man.

“Wow.” Stiles paused for a moment, his head craning back to take in the impressive trees. He assumed these were the water tupelo and bald cypress Peter had mentioned. To Stiles they were thin, spindly gray wraiths rising from the water’s edge, dripping here and there with splashes of dark green. “Is that Spanish Moss?”

“It is. Watch your step here.” Peter helped him over a large limb blocking the path.

Despite the help, Stiles managed to stumble. He looked down and saw a…hand? “Peter!”

Peter whirled around and for a moment Stiles thought his blue eyes had turned crimson but it was just his mind playing tricks on him. He bent over and looked beneath the branch. Pale skin and dark hair. “Corey, can you hear me?”

A moan was his answer.

Pulling out his cell phone, Peter requested an ambulance. 

The foliage all around them shook in the increased wind. It wouldn’t be safe near the trees for much longer. Hell, it hadn’t been safe for Corey an hour or so ago.

“I lost my signal. I’m going to meet Parrish and tell him where to find the backboard we have at the house. Stay with Corey.” Thunder boomed in the distance, punctuating his order.

“Of course.” Stiles shooed Peter on his way. 

Stiles quickly found out that talking to Corey only caused the other man to moan so Stiles knelt down and gently held his hand. Physical contact was about the only comfort he could give the groundskeeper at the moment.

_Stiles._

_Purple._

_Moon._

_Blood._

“Theo?” Stiles’s head whipped around, searching. For a moment he’d thought Theo was here.

There was no one there. 

Stiles shivered in the humid air, hunkering down next to the branch. He kept his hand wrapped loosely around Corey’s, trying to ground the other man. He couldn’t tell how badly he was injured but the longer he went without speaking, the more Stiles feared for him.

Alert for someone approaching, Stiles wasn’t looking at where his hand touched Corey’s but he felt the change. 

One moment he was touching skin and the next he was holding nothing.

Stiles’s adrenaline rush made his head spin but he took a deep breath, trying to calm down. He squinted into the gloom and he saw the outline of Corey’s hand but he couldn’t feel it.

“Help is on the way.”

Stiles tumbled backward, landing on his ass, his hand pulling away from Corey. He hadn’t heard Peter’s approach.

“Stiles?” Peter slowly moved toward him. 

Stiles’s body gave another hard shiver and he blamed the damp air. “That didn’t take you long.”

“I’ve been gone thirty minutes. The others should be close behind me.” Peter stared down at him, watching him closely.

Thirty minutes? Stiles could’ve sworn it had only been five minutes. He scrubbed his palms over his eyes, grimacing as the abraded skin made contact; he’d forgotten about the scrapes.

Wait. He’d been clinging to Corey’s hand and never felt pain.

“How’s Corey?” Peter spoke quietly, like he might to a spooked horse.

Stiles needed to get control of himself right now. He took a deep breath, lowered his hands from his face and made eye contact with Peter.

Were Peter’s eyes glowing red?

He quickly broke the contact, attention skittering away. He needed to concentrate on reality. “I don’t know how Corey is doing. He was restless when I spoke to him so I stopped and just held his hand.”

There, his voice barely shook.

Feet pounded their way and Stiles scrambled to his feet and moved to the side. The other two agents with Jordan, plus Peter, helped carefully move the branch off the injured man. 

Mason arrived with the paramedics and he was frantic to get to Corey but Jordan did a good job of moving him to the side. 

Stiles kept taking a step backward to give everyone more room.

“Careful, you’ll end up taking a dip in the water.” Peter had moved close to him and Stiles hadn’t even noticed. “Come on, I think it’s time to get back to the house.”

He let Peter herd him back, hand circling his wrist, or cupping his elbow. Drops of rain began to pelt them adding to Stiles’s general physical misery. He’d rather have physical misery to distract him than worry about his mental breakdown.

Peter swept their section of the house and gave the all clear, shooing Stiles upstairs. “Take a hot shower and then come back down. I’ll make you some more of Nana’s tea if you want.”

Stiles must’ve responded correctly because Peter smiled at him. The climb up the stairs felt like a full work out, each step weighing him down.

He tried to keep his mind blank and just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

-0-

Peter had showered before Parrish took off. He still managed to beat Stiles who was puttering around in his room.

Moving toward the kitchen when he heard Stiles’s door crack open, he poured water into the electric kettle.

“Where is everyone?” Stiles looked around the kitchen as if Peter had hidden the agents in the cupboards.

“Parrish just left. Finstock and Greenberg accompanied the paramedics. Mason went with Corey.” Peter rattled off the list of players who had so recently been on the property.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “And then there were two.”

Laughter escaped Peter’s lips. He was pleased Stiles sounded better even if he was still to pale. When he’d returned to the creek, Stiles had looked shell shocked. Hollowed out. Now he had a spark of life.

The kettle beeped signaling the water was heated. Before Peter could pour the water into the mug with Nana’s special tea, his phone rang.

“Parrish, what’s going on?” His voice was clipped but the agent hadn’t left too long ago so he couldn’t imagine what could’ve happened in that small amount of time.

“It’s Raeken. Finstock and Greenberg gave chase and Raeken’s car lost traction on the wet road. He went over a guardrail on the bridge.” Peter could picture the area Parrish described; the lane was narrow and the guardrail was low on that bridge. It wasn’t built for high speed chases.

“What’s his condition?” Peter didn’t like that Raeken had been so close to Sullivan’s Landing. He needed to know the little fucker was no longer a threat.

Parrish snorted. “Dead. Burnt to a crisp to be more precise. He was trapped in the car which ignited when it rolled.”

“Thank you, Parrish. Are you going to stay in Charleston?” There was certainly enough room for Parrish to join them.

Parrish made another snorting sound of disbelief. “The roads are horrible. The rain is coming down in sheets now. I’ll stay in town and see you tomorrow.”

Peter rang off, pleased with the turn of events.

Stiles stood next to the kitchen island, staring at him. “What happened?” He seemed braced for bad news.

“Raeken was killed in a car chase.” Although Peter was okay with the thought of the preppy asshole dying a fiery death, he knew he’d meant something to Stiles at one time.

Stiles’s arms folded protectively around his middle. “Are you sure?”

“Parrish confirmed it.” Peter watched as Stiles sagged, a hand bracing against the countertop.

Peter was at his side in moments. He drew the other man into his arms.

The timing might not be right but as far as Peter was concerned, the job had concluded. He could have a relationship with Stiles if he wanted.

Starting right now.

Stiles burrowed into his chest and Peter enjoyed the way their bodies fit together. He scented the air; grief was quickly being overridden by lust. Sometimes an affirmation of life was needed on the heels of a death.

Peter’s lips sought Stiles’s and the contact was electric, both men shivering at that soft touch.

A spark ignited between them and Peter sought more of Stiles’s mouth.

Stiles lunged forward at the same time and their foreheads cracked together.

“Ow,” Stiles rubbed his forehead, smiling at Peter.

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” Peter quipped.

Stiles laughed; it was loud and unabashed and everything Peter wanted in a lover. “You’re such an asshole.”

Peter didn’t deny it. He had never been a sweet child. In adulthood he knew what he wanted and he took it. Asshole was as good a descriptor as any and he could live with it.

Now he wanted Stiles. He hefted the man up, their chests pressed together, Stiles wrapping his long legs around Peter’s waist. Peter wanted— _needed_ —a flat surface. With Theo Raeken no longer a threat hanging over their heads, Peter was going to take Stiles apart and then put him back together again.

The trip up the stairs was barely a memory, Peter so intent on sucking and licking Stiles’s mouth. Enjoying the press of their bodies. With Stiles safe in his arms, he could control their movements, keep the man safe. 

Peter was disappointed that Stiles wasn’t wearing the thong underwear but he had to admit Stiles looked spectacular in the boxer briefs. The way the fabric framed his ass was…memorable.

What they did in bed was much more memorable, Stiles the perfect match for Peter. He played Stiles’s body to perfection, enjoying the noises of climax. Peter’s own finale took him by surprise, appearing as soon as he sunk into Stiles’s warmth, the sensation of being surrounded more than his body could withstand.

Stiles was a post coital cuddler and for once Peter didn’t mind the contact. It took more will power than it should’ve to leave Stiles dozing as he slipped from bed to retrieve a damp washcloth, his wolf reluctant to leave the vulnerable human’s side. Stiles moaned a protest but settled right back into his drowse.

After cleaning himself up, Peter stroked the damp cloth over the nibbles he’d made on Stiles’s pale skin before mopping up the proof of their desire. His shifter sight focused on the inner left thigh where the shallow healing puncture wounds of a bite lingered.

Peter had used his teeth but he’d been judicious in their application and he hadn’t gone near any of the marking zones despite his wolf’s wishes. Why was there a claiming mark on Stiles?

“Stiles, who did this to you?” Peter surprised himself by the depth of his growl.

Stiles stirred, leaning up on an elbow, squinting up at Peter. His hair was bed tousled, his face rosy from their earlier exertions…it was a marvelous look on him.

He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. Peter gestured to Stiles’s bitten thigh. “What happened?”

The upturned nose crinkled in distaste. “That asshole Theo bit me.”

Neither Peter’s human or shifter side was happy with that answer. He knew human love bites happened all of the time but for a werewolf, the bite was meaningful. It was a claim of a sort, at the very least to broadcast to others that the bitten party was in a relationship and to tread carefully. At least that was true of the werewolf world.

Stiles sat upright, scratching at the back of his neck. It was a nervous tell that Peter found increasingly attractive. His wolf wanted to smother Stiles and keep him safe and sated.

“Hey, could you look at this for me? My skin is irritated back here,” Stiles’s voice was surprisingly deep. 

Peter shivered at the sound, his body beginning a slow wind up toward arousal again. He folded the washcloth and set it on the nightstand before kneeling on the bed. Pushing Stiles’s hair to the side he inspected the site. There were pink puckered marks but they seemed to be healing well. “You must’ve scraped your neck when you got dinged by the Kia.” His fingers touched the skin around the injury and he drew up a pinch of pain.

Stiles’s scent become uneasy. He frowned, brow crinkling. “I think I had it before—”

A cell phone trilled loudly and Peter shuffled from the bed, retrieving the device from his pants’ pocket. “Parrish.”

“I just wanted to let you know the levy broke and the bridge is impassable. It looks like you two are stuck there for a while. Will you be okay?” Peter was grateful for many of Parrish’s attributes but in this instance, his timing was deplorable.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Peter sighed. “We’ll probably be safer than you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m at the hospital with Corey and Mason. Corey is still unconscious but it sounds like he should make a complete recovery.” Peter wouldn’t want to ride out a hurricane at the hospital but Parrish didn’t sound fazed at the thought.

“I’ll talk to you later.” Peter disconnected before Parrish’s boy scout tendencies kicked in and he started quizzing Peter on how they’d remain safe sequestered from civilization.

Peter’s body was energized but his brain seemed sluggish. Good sex—no, great sex—had that effect on him. 

Stiles yawned. Peter patted his shoulder. “You get some rest and I’ll see about fixing us a meal.”

-0-

Stiles stretched out of bed, his movements languid. He didn’t have any idea of how long he’d slept and the storm, winds whipping against the windows, had darkened the sky so he couldn’t tell if it was morning, noon or night. Finding his cell phone required more effort than he wanted to expend and the room was without a clock.

When he stepped into the hallway, he could hear Peter moving around somewhere downstairs but the sounds were muted. 

Powering through a quick shower, Stiles heard thunder crashing outside. A weird pulse, like static electricity, thrummed over his skin. His body burst with renewed energy but his mind flitted from one thought to another, like kernels exploding into popcorn.

An overwhelming urge to touch the purple flowers he’d picked washed over him. As though in a dream he went to the armoire and drew out random items.

_Purple._

_Moon._

_Blood._

With a dagger in hand—where did the knife come from? Stiles didn’t have an answer and felt compelled to continue pulling out things—he drew a line across his already abraded palm.

Stiles hated the sight of blood, especially his own, and his knees felt weak, his head woozy.

Energy sparked at his fingertips, a jolt running through his body as he dripped blood on the aconite.

“Dea lunae, dona mihi potestatem mortis et vitae.  
Fidelis serve filius tuus voluerit in vobis.  
Ignis spiritus vitae, donum commodare vester in coyote.”

Stiles’s head reeled. He was speaking, more like chanting, but he didn’t understand the words.

_That was perfect, Stiles. Now remember those words._

That was Theo.

_What do they mean?_

Theo had always had patience for Stiles’s curiosity. 

Even in his dream world, Theo answered his question: _It means Goddess of the moon, grant me the power over life and death. Your faithful son wishes to serve you. Bringer of life bestow your gift upon the coyote._

Stiles dripped blood on a lock of hair. Where did that come from? He was making a mess of the guest bedroom, dripping blood over the bed.

“What are you doing, Stiles?” Peter interrupted him. He didn’t sound angry but he was upset.

Cringing away from him, Stiles choked out a sob. “Don’t touch me!” He felt like he would fly apart if their skin made contact.

Peter didn’t heed his words, moving briskly to his side. Against his will, Stiles lifted the dagger and slashed at Peter. He nicked skin and that was too much for Stiles’s over stimulated senses.

This time his knees failed him and he plunged to the hardwood floor, losing his grip on the knife.

“Donum commodare vester in coyote.” Stiles gasped the strange words again, no longer in control of him mouth, his limbs or his vision.

He felt Peter haul him up by the shoulders but he lost his grip on consciousness, happy to ride the wave of darkness.

-0-

Peter tugged at the duvet covering the bed, dumping it to the floor. With a hand braced behind Stiles’s back and the other beneath his knees, Peter lifted Stiles into his arms before placing him gently on top of the bed.

What had he walked into? He didn’t know anything except Stiles’s heart was banging in his chest and his eyelids fluttered as his body twitched, in the grip of some strange power.

When Peter had touched Stiles, energy had sparked and the jolt of electricity had made his hair stand on end. 

Cupping Stiles’s cheek, Peter tried to coax him awake. “Stiles, can you hear me?”

Stiles nuzzled into his touch, moaning, but that was the extent of his response.

Something supernatural was going on with Stiles and Peter wished, uselessly, that his Nana was here to counsel him.

Peter picked up the cup of tea he’d sloshed over some of the floor in his mad dash to get to Stiles’s side. For a moment Peter had thought Stiles was going to plunge the knife into his own chest or neck; it was something in Stiles’s panicked face that made him think that. He was surprised when Stiles had turned the knife on Peter instead although Stiles’s movement had been jerky, as though he wasn’t in complete control of them.

Was someone else pulling Stiles’s strings and for what purpose?

With a hand beneath Stiles’s head, Peter levered him up and splashed the cooling liquid in the mug into Stiles’s lax mouth. At least Stiles swallowed without prompting. His heartrate was subsiding to a more manageable rate, too, but Peter didn’t like his pallor or his clammy skin. 

Stiles turned his head away and Peter, interpreting the gesture to mean he didn’t want more, set the cup on the nightstand. Laying Stiles back down, Peter went to the bathroom and found a first aid kit. He made quick work of cleaning and then taping gauze over the newest wound.

Something supernatural was afoot here, Peter could feel it in the air. 

Stiles had wandered into the garden without realizing it, drawn to something. Peter had definitely interrupted some sort of ritual but again, he didn’t think Stiles was the driver behind his own wheel. What could influence a human’s actions?

Drugs?

Magic.

A whimper drew Peter’s attention. Stiles’s eyelids were fluttering at a rapid pace and then they lifted.

Stiles bolted into a sitting position, almost smashing Peter’s face with his head. His heartrate sped up again, matched by fast panting breaths.

Peter pushed sweat damp hair from Stiles’s face. “Calm down. It’s okay.”

Taking Peter’s hand between his own, Stiles clung to Peter. “I don’t,” Stiles paused to lick his lips, “know what happened.”

“I don’t know either but I have an idea. Do you trust me?” The scab at Stiles’s neck had given Peter the idea: The alpha memory wipe via claws to the nervous system although Peter would do it in reverse to access Stiles’s memories.

Stiles made eye contact, still clinging to Peter’s hand. He took a deep breath and nodded his head yes.

“This is a type of hypnotism. I just need you to relax and trust me. Can you do that for me?” Peter untangled his had from Stiles’s grip, taking Stiles’s face between both hands, staring into his pretty eyes. “Do you consent to this?”

“I,” Stiles wetted his lips with a nervous tongue, “want to know what’s happening to me. Am I losing my mind?”

The aroma of old grief was easily detected; it was an old friend to Peter. His thumb stroked across Stiles’s sharp cheekbone. “Why do you think you’re losing your mind?”

Stiles’s face collapsed for an instance, another flash of grief, and then he seemed to regain control. “My mom had a neurological disorder, died young from it. I think, maybe, I have it.” 

Peter’s wolf bayed in the back of his head. It didn’t like to see Stiles in distress. Neither did Peter’s human side.

The sleep walking. The spacing out. Peter could understand why Stiles had concerns. Maybe magic wasn’t at fault here.

There was only one way to find out.

“I need you to sit on the edge of the bed.” Peter waited for Stiles to scoot into position. “Take a deep breath and listen to my voice.”

When Stiles inhaled, Peter unsheathed the claws on his right hand and inserted them into Stiles’s cervical spine between the C2 and C3 vertebrae.

Stiles’s body became limp and Peter curled his left arm around the man’s chest, holding him upright. He could hear Stiles’s heart thumping at a regular pace along with even respirations. 

Taking his own deep breath, Peter immersed himself in Stiles’s nervous system.

He skated around memories of Stiles and his mother, at first sweet and playful and ending in violence and misery; Peter now understood Stiles’s concerns about inheriting his mother’s neurological disorder.

Memories of Stiles’s father were more distant until after Claudia Stilinski’s death. Peter cringed as he witnessed Stiles stepping up, resuming some of his mother’s responsibilities, trying to parent his struggling father. The two were bonded, and loved one another, but even through Stiles’s eyes he could see that his father struggled to understand his son.

A mass of yellow in the corner—a caution sign—blinked methodically.

_Warning. Stay out. Go back._

This is what Peter needed. Although it was possible for anyone to construct hidden areas and compartmentalize, this one was magical.

Theo Raeken was a werecoyote. How was that possible? Peter hadn’t scented shifter on the man when they’d met.

Of course he knew from his own sorry history that it was possible to disguise a scent and wreak havoc like burning down a house while those inside were trapped, but that required strong magic.

Peter could suss out several important things although Raeken’s intent was still a mystery.

Most important, Stiles didn’t suffer from the same malady that had taken his mother so young; his nervous system was healthy and active.

Next, Theo had put a compulsion on his boyfriend, teaching him a Latin spell and the ingredients needed. Peter didn’t know the intent of the ritual spell but he could research it now.

Last, family was important to Stiles. He and his father might not see eye to eye on everything but Stiles was miserable at the idea he had let his father down. It had something to do with FBI and that asshole Harris. Peter would get to the bottom of that when Stiles woke up.

Peter’s own family situation was complicated and he wondered what a future relationship with Stiles would mean. It was too much to contemplate at the moment (he’d only slept with Stiles, it wasn’t like he’d proposed). Later, after he’d rested.

Peter’s energy flagged and he withdrew his claws before causing Stiles damage. 

Stiles’s body sagged forward and Peter caught his weight, preventing him from slumping on to the floor. He lacked the energy to remain standing and crawled into the bed, hauling Stiles against him.

His wolf sighed in contentment, happy to hold Stiles in a protective grasp.

Peter intended to find out what Theo had put in motion and do everything in his power to keep Stiles safe.

-0-

Stiles woke up to the sensation of movement. He was warm and felt safe despite the elements whipping against the house.

“Mmmm,” he snuggled into the comfort.

“Time to wake up. I need to make us something to eat.” That was Peter’s voice.

Right next to his ear.

Stiles startled but strong arms squeezed him tight. “Easy. I’m just going to set you down here in the kitchen. I want to keep you with me.”

Knuckling the sleep from his eyes, Stiles glanced around. Had Peter really carried him down the stairs? He knew the guy was strong but Stiles was no light weight. Peter was bustling around the kitchen, once again assembling food for him and he concentrated on that for a while, letting everything else drop away.

“How long was I out for?” Stiles stretched his arms overhead, his spine popping. He sought the back of his neck, wincing at the tenderness. “What happened?”

“We both slept for over ten hours. I still feel drained but I’m hoping some food will help with that.” Peter set a plate with a sandwich in front of Stiles. He returned with an assortment of chips. “What would you like to drink?”

“Do you have Coke?” Stiles thought an infusion of syrupy cola would help bring his brain online.

“What type?” Peter queried, smirking.

Stiles laughed. He was tickled at the regional name for soda pop and it pleased him that Peter was, too. They seemed to be in sync, and not just in the bedroom. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” Peter set down a can of Coke and tipped Stiles’s chin up, staring down at him.

Suddenly Stiles could no longer keep his fears a secret. Biting his lip, he gazed back at Peter. “I’m losing time. I think I might be sick.”

Peter picked up the can and set it in Stiles’s hand. “Drink that. You need some calories and fluid. I need to explain some things to you.”

Stiles obeyed Peter’s command, a little surprised at himself for following the other man’s directive. It wasn’t like Stiles didn’t know how to follow instructions, as evidenced by how well he’d been doing with the FBI training, but he didn’t know what Peter was to him.

His ex-assignment; with Theo no longer in the picture they were free to pursue a relationship because Stiles was no longer under Peter’s protection. 

His lover. There was no doubt about that. All sorts of muscles were pleasantly sore from the work out he’d received.

Possible boyfriend? It was difficult to dismiss that as a possibility, especially when Peter stared at him with such warmth in his usually cold blue eyes. 

Of course if Stiles did have frontotemporal dementia he probably didn’t have much time left to pursue anything.

Stiles drained the can and set it down. Peter boxed him in, his body standing between Stiles’s splayed legs, the kitchen island at his back. He wasn’t going anywhere and that seemed right.

“Stiles, I’m a werewolf.”

Stiles’s breath caught.

Was Peter fucking with his mind? Werewolves weren’t…

Pain crashed through his head and he clutched at it, squeezing his eyes closed. 

Werewolves were real. His best friend, Scotty, was a werewolf. He also knew a banshee, a werecoyote and druid. And that gardener, Corey…there was something different about him.

Theo! Theo was a werecoyote, for fuck’s sake. 

Theo did this to him. Theo took his memories? He never would’ve believed it was possible to forget about the other part of his amazing friends but then again since the supernatural existed it made sense something supernatural could wipe out memories.

Stiles leaned against Peter’s chest, gulping for air. 

That _asshole_.

“Well isn’t this cozy?”

Stiles head snapped up and he looked over Peter’s shoulder, cringing at the vision before him.

It was Theo’s voice but the thing standing before him sported blistered skin and singed hair.

And Theo’s trademark smirk.

Peter put himself between Theo and Stiles, growling a warning. “Theo Raeken, werecoyote I presume? I will make certain you stay dead this time.”

The two shifters fought and it was a blur of claws and teeth and snarling…the action spilled out into the living room and Stiles cringed as what he thought were antiques got smashed to bits.

He needed to do something. He needed to help Peter.

Aconite. He had aconite upstairs. 

Stiles pushed to his feet, staggering in the opposite direction as the combatants. It’s not that he doubted Peter had the strength to take Theo, but Theo had magic on his side.

Racing into this room, Stiles found the ceremonial dagger and aconite. He smashed the purple leaves, smearing them across the blade.

He’d only have one shot at this, if he was lucky, and he needed to make it count. For Peter.

The noises from downstairs had grown quiet and Stiles crept back down the staircase.

Crap.

Peter was stuck in a circle of Mountain Ash. Werewolves were bound by the substance but werecoyotes were able to manipulate it. Scott’s mentor, Deaton, had taught him that much.

Stiles slumped to the floor close to the kitchen stool where he’d been when Theo had made his entrance; Theo would suspect something if Stiles remained in place and Theo had probably heard him moving around. He brushed a hand over the dagger resting against the back of his right hip, the aconite making his skin itch.

Theo entered the kitchen, hair already regrown into the light brown mop Stiles was accustomed to seeing. Half of his face and his right arm were still patchy and pink, the partially burned jeans his only clothing.

His one-time boyfriend grabbed his upper arm, hauling him up off the floor, dragging him into the living room. Stiles made sure he kept his legs rubbery, allowing Theo to do the work. 

Lulling Theo into thinking Stiles was just a weak human.

Peter lunged against the invisible barrier, eyes pulsing alpha red. “Let him go.”

Stiles remembered Peter’s eyes pulsing alpha red on other occasions, about how he’d thought he’d lost his mind, when in fact it was Theo’s fault. 

Theo had stolen his memories.

“I don’t think so, Agent Hale. You see Stiles is integral to my plans. I used the amazing claws to the nervous system trick you werewolves made so famous and I took some of his memories. Did you see my calling card on his inner thigh? That little bite put the compulsion on him with the spell to bring me back from the dead. My stupid pack was falling apart and I knew it was just a matter of time before things got dicey.”

Dropping to his haunches, Peter glared murder at Theo. He’d never looked more attractive to Stiles then in that moment as his muscles flexed in frustration, eager to tear Theo apart.

Stiles could relate.

Theo continued his monologue. “Of course Stiles needed the power of the full moon along with your power—your alpha spark. And his own spark. You see Stiles is for all intents and purposes a weak human,” Stiles rolled his eyes at that since Theo was staring at Peter, “but he is also a powerful spark. It was a waste of his talents going into the FBI like that so I was ecstatic when things didn’t work out for him. It made for easy pickings.”

Stiles leaned away from Theo, he needed to sell this or Theo would never turn his back on him and give him the opportunity he needed, sagging back into the shifter when Theo effortlessly reeled him back. “Let him go, Theo.” It wasn’t difficult to beg for Peter’s life.

“I don’t think so. He touched what’s mine.” Theo cupped Stiles’s cheek and Stiles cringed away from him, no acting involved. “Douglas wanted your spark but I put him in his place. He was quite proud of being a Lowenmensch but I put that wolf-lion hybrid freak down for even thinking of touching you.”

He was speechless. How had Theo hidden this…insanity from him?

The man in question twisted his face into a rictus of madness. “You are mine. You belong to me. You shouldn’t have gone running to the FBI. I’m going to take great pleasure in correcting your behavior, Stiles.” 

Peter renewed his efforts to get past the Mountain Ash. Theo shoved Stiles down, marching forward, his claws fully extended. “Your punishment will start with Hale’s death.”

Stiles regained his footing and withdrew the dagger. He knew his heartrate was telegraphing his adrenaline rush but he could only hope Theo mistook it for fear. Bracing the dagger in both hands, Stiles rushed forward, sinking the blade into the meaty part of Theo’s shoulder.

Theo roared, one hand going to the blade to pull it out, the other flinging Stiles across the room.

His head connected with something and his consciousness receded.

-0-

Peter’s head was reeling. 

Stiles was a spark. Theo had used Stiles, and Peter, to bring himself back from the dead. Theo was batshit crazy.

And Stiles was brave.

Stiles had stabbed Theo and the werecoyote had collapsed. Peter knew he was still alive but for the time being he was incapacitated.

Luckily Stiles was also alive. He’d been thrown across the room, head connecting with the wall, but he was still breathing.

How was Stiles a spark? He’d never seen any signs of it…well maybe that wasn’t accurate after all. Stiles had somehow opened his Nana’s prized tea tin which should’ve been impossible without ripping the fragile container apart.

There was time to figure that all out but for now Peter needed to know Stiles wasn’t hurt too badly. He also needed his help to get free.

“Stiles, can you hear me?” Peter thought Stiles twitched.

“Stiles?” Peter beat a fist against the barrier. He loathed Mountain Ash.

With a sigh, Stiles pushed himself on to his back. “Just five more minutes, Dad.”

There was nothing humorous about this situation. Theo was unconscious but he could wake up at any moment. Stiles was in danger and there was nothing Peter could do, stuck behind the Mountain Ash barrier. But Stiles, begging for more time to sleep, made Peter’s lips quirk into a smile.

Peter tried again. “Stiles, I need your help.” 

That did the trick. Stiles sat up, put a hand to the back of his head, and frowned at the smudge of blood he found there when he withdrew it. “Yeah, okay, I’m up.”

Like a newborn foal, Stiles pushed unsteadily to his feet and staggered across the room.

“Stiles, I need you to—”

Stiles huffed, interrupting Peter. “Break the line of Mountain Ash. Yeah, I’m on it.”

With a swiped of his toe, Stiles broke the barrier and the air popped with the change in pressure. Peter gathered Stiles into his arms, murmuring assurances. He’d come close to losing Stiles. 

It was amazing to Peter, how perfect Stiles was for him. The younger man even knew about supernaturals. 

After leaning into him for a while, Stiles pushed back. “We need to take care of Theo.”

Peter thought about arresting the shifter but as progressive as law enforcement had gotten when it came to supernaturals, it still wasn’t easy to contain them. The public at large didn’t know of their existence and special accommodations were needed to imprison them.

Theo wasn’t just psychotic, he was obsessed with Stiles. He didn’t want to scare Stiles but the waves of anger, lust and possession that had wafted off Theo when he spoke of Stiles was the worst Peter had ever witnessed. Hell, Theo had _claimed_ Stiles, biting him in an intimate area. Peter meant to rectify that straight away.

He wasn’t obsessed with Stiles but he could recognize it in others. He’d lived through the Argents torching his family to the ground so he knew something about obsession.

Peter set Stiles to the side. “You might not want to watch this.”

Stiles folded his arms and looked on impassively.

Peter’s claws snapped out with a flick of his hands and he wasted no time in tearing out Theo’s throat. 

Theo’s eyelids lifted and he threw an arm out weakly in Stiles’s direction, Stiles’s name bubbling out of his mouth along with copious amounts of blood. 

A stray beam of light caught Stiles in its grip, displaying his candescent beauty. 

Stiles turned, shielding his face from the brightness. “Did I miss the hurricane?”

Peter shook the blood from his claws before sheathing them. He wiped residue on his thighs. He wanted to shower off the day’s events, with Stiles by his side.

“I think we’re in the eye.” Peter stepped away from the now dead shifter, taking Stiles’s hand and drawing him to the back of the house. He flipped a switch and the mechanical grind of the hurricane shutters sounded.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” Stiles put his arm around Peter’s waist and leaned against him. 

It was a sight to behold. Stiles’s hair was shiny and tousled, his tourmaline color eyes sparkling, his plump pink lips parted as he looked into Peter’s face in excitement. “It certainly is,” Peter agreed.

-0-

Stiles leaned back into Peter’s warmth as they stood on the landing. The waves crashed into shore with a wild beauty. “Mmm, safe harbor.”

“Sullivan’s Landing has always provided a safe harbor from hurricanes.” Peter was always fiercely proud of the land here. His territory.

“Safe harbor from all types of calamity I’d say.” Stiles agreed.

Hurricane Alberto had moved on with some damage in its wake but already Sullivan’s Landing was showing signs of recovery. So were Peter and Stiles. They’d returned Theo back to the land. This time his body had been turned into ash and the ashes dispersed all over so that any other ritual spells would have less to work with. 

As for Sullivan’s Landing, the grass was lushly green and the garden had survived. When Stiles looked over his shoulder, rays of sunlight danced over the house.

It looked welcoming instead of isolating.

An incoming text message dinged its arrival. Stiles pulled his phone out and looked at it: His MRI was scheduled for next week.

“Good news?” Peter prompted.

“Yeah. My MRI is scheduled for next week in DC. I’ll at least know what the future holds.” The anxiety Stiles had felt previously had dissipated. He wasn’t a damsel in distress. He might’ve brought Theo back to life but he’d played a part in putting him back down. He felt like he was well on his way to establishing himself as an equal.

Peter cleared his throat. “I was able to poke around a bit when I used the Alpha memory move. Your neurological system seemed to be in fine working order.”

Stiles felt lightheaded with relief. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Peter squeezed him tightly. “Does that mean you plan to resume your career with the FBI?”

“I think so? I have a few questions but I’ll meet with Rafa next week after the MRI.” Stiles used to hate Scott’s dad but Rafa McCall had turned into one of his staunchest supporters and he was actually fair minded and competent. 

He did still hate Harris and he planned to file an official complaint against the instructor. 

Peter’s hand migrated to the back of Stiles’s neck and squeezed lightly. Lingering pain he hadn’t even been aware of drifted away like a helium balloon. “How do you know McCall?”

“Rafa is my best friend’s father. He can be a real a-hole but he’s also a pretty good guy.” Stiles took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. “Speaking of assholes, why do you refer to everyone by their last name? You even do that with your partner which is weird.”

The arm around him squeezed again, Peter’s voice low and amused. “Stiles, I’m not a nice a guy.”

Stiles snuggled into his side. “I guess I have a thing for not nice guys then.” Something else occurred to him. “Does Jordan know about supernatural stuff?”

Peter snorted inelegantly; it was probably the only inelegant thing the man did. “No, he doesn’t. Although I sometimes see a flash of something in him that makes me think he’s one of us but he’s so caught up in his perpetual boy scout act he doesn’t acknowledge it.”

He liked Jordan but Peter was right—he had the boy scout act down to a fine art. Stiles hoped he’d be around enough to poke around that little mystery.

Another message announced its arrival, this time on Peter’s phone. Peter pulled his phone out and glared at the screen. “Problem?”

“My niece and nephew want to see me.” Peter sounded like that was the equivalent of getting a root canal.

Stiles turned into Peter, cupping the other man’s sharp cheekbones and staring into his beautiful blue eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Peter’s shoulders sagged. The other man never displayed any weaknesses. Stiles didn’t know whether to be gratified Peter trusted him enough to show him his vulnerability or worried that he’d dropped his guard. “Family is very important to you, isn’t it?”

Stiles cocked his head to his side, not sure where this was going. “Well, when I lost my mom I realized how precious it can be. It scared me. But that’s not to say every family has the same dynamic.” Stiles took Peter’s hand in his own and squeezed it while his other hand toyed with the hair at Peter’s nap. 

“I lost most of my family in a fire.” Stiles nodded his head at this news; he was aware of the Hale House fire due to his dad’s job. “My nephew trusted the wrong person and that person used Derek to gain access to the house. They put down Mountain Ash and almost everyone died.”

Stiles squeezed Peter’s hand tightly. “I’m sorry for your loss but I’m grateful you lived.”

Peter actually smiled at his words. “It took me a long time to get to that point, too, but I did. I’m grateful for a lot of things.” He looked at Stiles so fondly, Stiles’s heart panged with happiness.

“Are you going to see your family while we’re here? I’ll be at your side for moral support if you want.” Peter’s face closed up at Stiles’s offer.

Stiles understood but the rebuff still hurt. 

“Come here,” Peter reeled him in, pressing his soft lips to Stiles’s. It was a sweet touch that made Stiles’s heart ache. “They’ll be here tomorrow. Yes, I’d like you to stay and meet them.”

Oh.

He pressed his lips to Peter’s and deepened the kiss.

A particularly strong wave made contact with the landing, showering them with water.

Stiles sputtered and drew back, smiling.

“I guess the hurricane is having its final say.” Peter laughed, too.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” Stiles let Peter tug him away from the water’s edge. 

Peter looked at him strangely. “I would’ve thought this place would only hold unhappy memories for you.”

“What do you mean? We’re both safe and I,” Stiles paused, searching for the right word. “I’m really happy here, with you.”

Peter caught him up in his arms and Stiles wrapped his legs around Peter’s waist. There were many, many benefits to shifter strength and Stiles looked forward to exploring them all with Peter.

“Me, too, Stiles. Me, too.”

 

Finis

**Author's Note:**

> Consent issues...Stiles has aspects of his memory wiped by Theo without his consent (accomplished in part through a bite to his inner thigh, also without his consent). 
> 
> Much gratitude to red_crate and Julibean19 for hosting this event. You rock! Seriously. Hosting an event generates a staggering amount of work and you two did it gratis. 
> 
> I couldn’t have asked to be partnered with a better artist for this project; orchidsrule inspired me with pictures that not only made me want to write fic but actually visit Charleston and their input on both the plot and then beta were invaluable. I’ve never had this level of input from an artist on a reverse bang event before but I wouldn’t hesitate to work with orchidsrule again because this process went flawlessly from my standpoint. The name says it all...orchids rule!
> 
> Lunapiero is a gifted beta who talked me through the art selection process and pointed out what a great inspiration this storyboard was and then went on to provide crucial feedback to further smooth out the rough edges. 
> 
> Batting cleanup was the award winning, supremely talented m/m author Elizabeth Noble who helped further polish the story. I always learn something new when Elizabeth lends a hand, and eye, to my work.
> 
> Lastly, thank you for reading the story! Please take a moment to admire the artwork by Orchidsrule (aka Harratus) if you haven't already.


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